Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (23 page)

“Absolutely, sir.” He patted the wood that covered half of the recessed doorway. “We’ve had a bit of luck. They’re goin’ to be tearin’ this place down in a couple of months.
That’s why they started boarding things up, sir. Wanted to make sure no one got in and took root.”

“Yes,” Witherspoon mused. “I suppose we have had our share of good fortune. You’re absolutely certain there isn’t any other way in or out of the pub?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Barnes said patiently. “They used to have a bit of a wharf so that boats could pull up and let people in and out. But it rotted years ago, and they boarded over the back door. Take my word for it, sir. Whoever is fencing that necklace has to come in through the front door. Right under our noses as it were.”

“Good.” Witherspoon walked back out into the street. Barnes was right on his heels. “Then we’ll be back this evening. If we hurry, we ought to have enough time to get a bite to eat. It might be quite a long night. We’ve no idea what time the woman might be showing up. How many lads are we leaving to watch the place?”

“Three, sir,” Barnes replied. “None of them in uniform either. They’re good coppers, sir. They’ll not be spotted. Two of them are from around this area. They’re the ones I’m puttin’ on the inside tonight. Tonight, of course, we’ll have several more on hand in case we have to make an arrest.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t in a particularly good mood herself, so when she saw Betsy’s long face and Smythe’s tight-lipped expression, she knew this meeting might not run smoothly.

“Let’s get this done, then,” Mrs. Goodge ordered as she placed the tea tray on the table “I’ve got more people coming through here in an hour or two, and I’ll need this kitchen clear if I’m to get information out of anyone.”

Her tone was a tad testy, a sure sign that she’d not learned anything useful either.

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Quickly, everyone, take your seats.” For a few moments the only sounds were the scraping of chairs and the swish of material as people took their places around the table. “Now, if no one has anything to report…”

“I’ve got something to report,” Hatchet said eagerly. It wasn’t much, but at least he’d come back with something. “I tracked down Lady Henrietta Morland,” he continued. “She was on the same ship as Mirabelle Daws. She was also on the same vessel as Annabelle Daws Prosper. She knew both women.”

“How very interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She forced herself to be patient. Though what she was most interested in doing at this meeting was making their plans for this evening’s hunt at the Sailor’s Whistle pub. She fully intended that someone from this household would witness everything that went on. “Did you learn anything new?”

Hatchet opened his mouth to reply and then clamped it shut again and slumped in his chair. “Not really. I simply got confirmation of what Judith Brinkman reported. Mirabelle Daws wasn’t shy with expressing her opinion to all and sundry. But I did get a photograph,” he reached in his pocket, pulled it out and tossed it onto the tabletop. “Unfortunately, it’s not one of Mirabelle Daws.”

“Who is it, then?” Betsy asked as she picked it up.

“Lady Henrietta and Annabelle Prosper,” he replied. “Lady Henrietta’s on the right, the woman next to her is that Mrs. Moulton. Annabelle Daws is standing a few feet back. She’s the one in the dark shawl.”

“How’d you get in to see this woman?” Luty demanded.

Hatchet smiled broadly. “That was easy. I pretended to be an American newspaper reporter doing a story on Mirabelle Daws. I used the name Rollo Puffy. That way, if Lady Henrietta said anything to Inspector Witherspoon, it would be the same name as madam so cleverly used when she sent the telegram.”

“Touché, Hatchet.” Luty laughed.

“Who’s Rollo Puffy?” Betsy asked. She put the photograph down next to her teacup.

“I’ll tell you later,” Luty promised, “after the men leave for the pub tonight.”

“Is that it, Hatchet?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” he admitted. He noticed that his photograph wasn’t eliciting much interest. No one else even bothered to pick it up. He started to reach for it, fully intending to stuff it back in his coat pocket, when he was distracted by Wiggins.

“I’ve got something to say,” the footman said eagerly. “I finally had a word with Fiona today. Caught her at the train station as she was fixin’ to leave town.”

“Who’s Fiona?” Smythe asked.

“You remember, she were that tweeny I told ya about that first day,” Wiggins said. “The one who I thought was hidin’ something. I were right, she was hidin’ somethin’. That’s one of the reasons she’s leavin’ town. Scared, she is. Right scared that’s she’s goin’ to be next.”

Everyone leaned forward eagerly.

Wiggins, seeing that he now had their full attention, paused and reached for his tea.

“Get on with it, Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “We’ve not got all night. Not only do I have my sources comin’ in, but we’ve got to make some plans for this evening.”

“I’m gettin’ to it,” he complained. Why was he always the one that got rushed? “Anyways, I saw Fiona outside the Prosper ’ouse, but I didn’t get a chance to speak to ’er. Finally caught up with her at the railway station. At first, she weren’t too friendly.” He didn’t tell them about her threatenin’ to call the police on him when he’d first showed up. “But after we’d talked for a few minutes, she were willin’ to tell me a few things.” Again, he’d used the inspector’s name. That and a cup of tea had calmed the girl considerably. “She was right nervous. Claimed that Mrs. Prosper were pretendin’ she didn’t want the girl to go because of the funeral bein’ tomorrow.”

“That’s understandable,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “A funeral reception takes a lot of work. They’ll have a lot of people to cater for.”

“But they’ll not,” Wiggins argued. “That’s one of the reasons Fiona left. She thinks the whole bunch of ’em is actin’ right strange. No one’s goin’ to the funeral but the immediate
family. There’s to be no reception at all. They’re not even letting some of the people from the ship come. The purser sent his condolences and asked when the service would be, and Mrs. Prosper sent him a nasty note sayin’ he shouldn’t come, that it was to be family only. That Judith Brinkman wanted to come as well, and the Prospers did the same thing to her. Fiona says the whole thing gives her a funny feelin’.”

“Why would the Prospers’ lack of a funeral reception make the tweeny leave?” Betsy asked. “A private funeral isn’t that unusual, especially as Mirabelle Daws didn’t really know anyone here.”

“It weren’t just that,” Wiggins continued. “It were a lot of things that scared Fiona. It seems that on the night of the murder, Fiona heard half the household up and down and out and about. Her room is just over the second floor, right over the family bedrooms. Well, Fiona couldn’t sleep that night ’cause Sally, that’s the girl she shares with, was snorin’ somethin’ awful. About half past four, she was wide awake and worryin’ that she’d be dead tired the next day. All of a sudden, she hears the bedroom door below her creakin’ open. Then she heard footsteps crossing the landing and going down the front stairs.”

“Did she get up and see who it was?”

He shook his head. “No, she thought at the time that she knew who it was. She thought it was Mrs. Prosper sneakin’ out to the garden to meet Mr. Heckston.”

“Blimey, I guess everyone did know about those two,” Smythe muttered softly.

“But it weren’t Mrs. Prosper,” Wiggins explained, “because fifteen or so minutes later, she heard another door open. This time, she did stick her head out to see what was goin’ on. Well, blow me for a game of tin soldiers if she didn’t get the surprise of her life.”

“Who was it?” Betsy demanded.

“Eldon Prosper. That’s who it was. Standing in the hallway big as life.” Wiggins beamed proudly. “That’s why she left town. She got up the next morning and mentioned Mr. Prosper’s
name to the housekeeper only to be told that he’d not come back from Edinburg. Then she found out about the murder. She claimed she tried to talk to Mrs. Prosper’s maid about everything, about how she didn’t like what was goin’ on, but the maid refused to listen. But then Fiona says the woman drinks.”

“She does,” Betsy agreed.

“How’d you know?” Smythe asked sharply.

“I smelled it on her breath when we talked,” Betsy said.

“Can I finish?” Wiggins asked. “Poor Fiona is in a right old state. Something funny were goin’ on, and she’d no idea what.”

“Who does she think did it?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“She’s no idea.” Wiggins shrugged. “But considerin’ how much comin’ and goin’ there was from that house that night, she thought it best to leave.”

No one said anything for a moment. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “That’s very interesting, Wiggins. You’ve done very well. I’m just wondering if we ought to find a way to get this information to the inspector.”

“Why don’t we hold off on that, Mrs. J?” Smythe suggested. “Let’s see what ’appens at the Sailor’s Whistle tonight.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” she replied. “If needed, we can always make sure the inspector knows the girl left the household suddenly. That alone would be cause enough for him to question her.” She looked at Wiggins. “Why didn’t she tell the police any of this when she was questioned before? Inspector Witherspoon always makes sure he talks to everyone.”

Wiggins had asked the girl the same question. “She weren’t questioned by our inspector. One of the uniformed lads did it. She said that she was afraid to say too much because both Mrs. Prosper and Mrs. McCabe kept hanging about the kitchen when the policeman was talking to ’er.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned in disapproval but said nothing. She’d thought the inspector went to great lengths to insure
that everyone was questioned privately. Apparently, his standards were slipping a bit.

“But what does it mean?” Luty asked. “Like the boy says, there was so much comin’ and goin’ that night, it’s nigh on impossible to tell who mighta done the killin’.”

“Who had the motive?” Mrs. Goodge added. “Seems to me that’s where we ought to really start.”

“Eldon Prosper, for one,” Smythe said softly. “He was afraid Mirabelle would talk his wife into going back to Australia. That’s a powerful motive for some men, the idea of losin’ someone they love.” He glanced at Betsy as he spoke. And this time she didn’t look away.

“That Mrs. McCabe had a motive as well,” Mrs. Goodge argued. “I think hers is even stronger. If Mrs. Prosper left, she’d be stuck home with her brother for the rest of her life, and we know she wanted to go off traveling with her friend.”

“It seems to me that the only person who didn’t have a motive is Mrs. Prosper,” Hatchet commented.

“Perhaps she did,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Perhaps she didn’t want her wanton behaviour with her neighbor, Mr. Heckston, getting back to her brother in Australia. After all, we know nothing of the brother. Perhaps if he knew Mrs. Prosper had been unfaithful to her marriage vows, he’d cut her off completely.”

“But why should she care?” Betsy pointed out. “She knows her husband is so besotted with her that he’ll not turn her out into the streets. He’s rich as well. I don’t think she’d murder her own sister on the off chance that the sister might spill the beans to a brother that’s halfway ’round the world. Besides, from what we know of Mirabelle, I think mere’s a good chance her brother is much the same. He probably wouldn’t care what Annabelle Prosper had been up to with her neighbor.”

“You’ve got a point.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded slowly. There were so many unexplained questions. So much that she didn’t understand. But right now, there wasn’t time to think about them. They had to decide how they were going to keep watch
on the pub. Inspector Witherspoon might be doing quite well on this case, but she and the others weren’t quite ready to give up. “If no one else has anything to add, perhaps we’d better discuss how we’re going to deal with tonight’s problem.”

“I think Hatchet, Wiggins and I ought to nip out and keep an eye on the Sailor’s Whistle. We can see who shows up to sell that necklace.”

“Don’t you mean you can see who the killer is?” Mrs. Goodge groused. She was annoyed that so far, she’d not added one useful clue to this investigation.

“We don’t know that the person with the necklace is the murderer,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted as she remembered the inspector’s comment to Nivens. But even as the words left her lips, they had a hollow ring. The truth was, whoever showed up with the jewels probably had killed Mirabelle Daws. And the inspector had essentially come to that point without much help from any of them. It was depressing, but she refused to give in to it.

She glanced at Smythe and Betsy. She could tell by the way they occasionally smiled at each other that the ice between them was melting. She was fairly certain that there would be a big change coming from that direction. The idea didn’t really displease her. It might make life a bit more interesting if those two came to their senses and realized they cared deeply for one another. Besides, she thought, even if they did get engaged or even married, that didn’t mean their investigations would end. Betsy and Smythe loved snooping too much.

“We don’t know that the person fencing the jewels ain’t the killer either,” Smythe pointed out. He got up. “There’s a warehouse right across the street from the pub where we can see everything.”