Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (25 page)

“It’s her,” Witherspoon said in relief. He really wanted this case finished. Even if this person wasn’t the killer, at least apprehending her would bring them one step closer to solving the murder. He hoped.

The minutes ticked by. It got so quiet that they could hear the sound of the water lapping against the dilapidated wharf. Finally, after what seemed hours but was really only ten
minutes or so, the door opened. Jon McGee and the veiled woman both stepped outside.

McGee took the woman’s elbow, and they walked away from the pub, toward the wharf. Toward the darkness.

“Drat,” Witherspoon murmured. “Now he’s moved out of the light.”

“I think that was the idea,” Barnes said softly. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like it one bit. The constable held his bream as he watched the fence edging the woman further and further away from them.

McGee finally stopped. The two of them were now a good fifty feet off and standing in an area that was considerably darker than the spot outside the pub.

But there was still enough light to make out what few details Barnes discovered, as he watched McGee reach into his coat pocket and pull out a small packet. He extended it towards the woman. She reached for it, but he jerked back, keeping the packet just out of reach. “I’ll have the other first,” he told her.

Witherspoon nodded in satisfaction, glad that they could hear what was being said. McGee apparently felt so safe here that he didn’t bother to lower his voice.

The woman said nothing; she merely reached into her muff and drew out a cloth bag. They made the exchange.

McGee started to open the bag. Barnes and Witherspoon stepped out into the street, and the constable blew long and hard on the whistle he’d had at the ready.

Policemen poured out into the street. The three in plain clothes rushed out of the pub, two more that had been hiding behind a pile of rubbish on the wharf leapt out, and three others came flying from around the corner.

McGee realized what was happening first. He spotted Barnes and Witherspoon closing in quickly. Grabbing the woman, he hurled her towards the two policemen and made a mad dash in the other direction, his wooden leg thumping wildly as he ran.

The woman gave an inelegant squawk as she flew through
the air and slapped into Witherspoon. He managed to catch her around the waist and by throwing all his body weight forward, he kept them from hitting the pavement.

Barnes and three other policemen went flying after McGee. The fence bolted towards the intersection, watching over his shoulder as he ran. The constable saw what was happening first and shouted a warning at McGee, but to no avail. The fence went hurtling straight into the hansom cab that had just pulled around the corner.

The cabbie pulled hard on the reins, but there simply wasn’t time to stop. McGee was lucky, though. Instead of actually being trampled, he was butted in the stomach by the panicked horse and sent flying. He landed a couple of feet away from two police constables. Moaning, he tried to get up, couldn’t, and collapsed back onto the pavement.

“See about him, Barnes,” Witherspoon yelled as he struggled to hold onto the woman. By now, she was pulling, pushing, shoving and doing all manner of unladylike things to get free of the inspector’s grasp. But he held firm.

Two police constables leapt into the fray. Within a few moments, they had their quarry firmly, each one grasping one of the woman’s arms. Witherspoon, adjusting his glasses, stepped back and surveyed the scene.

Barnes knelt down next to McGee, reached into the groaning man’s coat pocket and took out the soft cloth bag. He opened the bag, reached in, and pulled out a long necklace. “I think this is it, sir,” he called.

“I don’t know how that got in my pocket,” McGee argued. “That tart must have planted it on me.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Witherspoon asked.

“He’ll be fine, sir. I don’t think he’s even got any broken bones.”

“Fat lot you know,” McGee snapped. He rubbed his head. “This is a setup, this is. I’m an innocent businessman doing a bit o’ legitamate business, and all of a sudden I’m set upon by coppers. It’s your fault I run into that bleedin’ hansom,”
he accused Barnes. “You’ll be hearin’ from my solicitor, you will.”

“I didn’t see him coming,” cried the hansom driver. He’d stopped a few feet away and was staring open-mouthed at the scene. “Oh my God, I’ve run over a cripple.”

McGee’s head shot up off the pavement. “Bugger off,” he yelled at the hapless hansom driver. “I ain’t no cripple, and if I wasn’t lay in’ here surrounded by coppers, I’d get up and kick yer bloomin’ arse all the way to Brighton.”

The cab driver ignored him. “It wasn’t my fault,” he repeated as he looked at Barnes. “I couldn’t stop. He come out of nowhere, he did. Ran smack into me.”

“You’ll be hearin’ from my solicitor too,” McGee screamed, incensed that the driver ignored his threats.

“Of course you couldn’t stop,” Barnes assured the driver. Then he looked down at McGee. “Save it for the judge,” he said to him. He rose to his feet and signaled for two uniformed men to take over. Then he hurried back to the inspector.

He handed Witherspoon the necklace. “Looks like opals and diamonds to me, sir.”

The inspector held them up. Even with just the faint light from the small pub windows, the stones separating the opals glittered in the night. “Indeed they do.” He dropped the necklace back into the bag. Then he handed it back to Barnes. “We’ll need this signed in as evidence. Now, let’s see who we have here.”

The woman, still standing between the two constables, said nothing. The inspector reached over and lifted her veil. He sighed as he stared into the frightened eyes of Marlena McCabe. “Mrs. McCabe,” he said firmly. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Mirabelle Daws.”

Marlena McCabe didn’t seem to grasp that she was under arrest for murder. “I tell you, I want to go home. My brother will be very worried about me.”

Witherspoon sighed inwardly. His suspect was sitting quite
calmly in the straight-backed chair on the other side of his desk. Constable Barnes was sitting to one side as was the young police constable who was taking down the woman’s statement. Not that she’d said anything particularly useful yet.

He tried again. “Mrs. McCabe, you don’t seem to understand how serious your predicament is. I must advise you that you’re under arrest for murder. Do you understand?”

She continued to stare at him blankly, then all of a sudden, she seemed to realize that she was at a police station and that she was in serious straits. She shuddered, and her eyes filled with tears. “Dear God, this can’t be happening.”

Finally, he thought. “But I assure you, ma’am, it is happening. Now, we have some questions for you. How did you come to be in possession of Mirabelle Daws’s necklace?” They’d not established that the necklace actually belonged to the victim as yet, but they weren’t in court at the moment and consequently, he wasn’t bound by the judge’s rules. It was perfectly reasonable to make the assumption that the necklace did belong to the victim.

“I don’t have to talk to you,” she insisted. “I don’t have to say anything.”

“That’s true,” Witherspoon replied. “You’re well within your rights to call for your solicitor. However,” he leaned forward, his expression deadly serious, “if you are innocent, you’re playing right into the real murderer’s hands by not telling us everything you know.”

The inspector had no idea what prompted him to say such a thing. He’d opened his mouth, and it had just popped out. Gracious, he didn’t want Mrs. McCabe to think she wasn’t under arrest. But before he could tell her that, she started to speak.

“She was already dead when I got there,” she blurted. “I’ll admit that I took the necklace, but I didn’t kill her.”

“What time did you arrive?” Barnes asked quickly.

She bit her lip. “It was about five, I think. I’m not absolutely sure.”

“How did you know that Mirabelle Daws was in the garden?” Witherspoon asked.

“I didn’t,” she replied. She looked down at the floor. “It was only an accident that I happened to come upon her body. I’d gone out to the garden because I couldn’t sleep.”

Witherspoon knew she was lying.

“That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it ma’am?” Barnes said softly.

“Coincidences happen,” she said. She didn’t look up from the floor. “Can I go home now? I really would like to have few hours to rest. Tomorrow is the funeral, you know. Even though it’s just going to be family, I do want to look my best.”

“No, ma’am,” the inspector said, “I’m afraid you can’t. Why didn’t you call for help when you found the woman dead?”

“I don’t know. I expect I ought to have called for the police. But I wasn’t thinking properly.” She looked up; her face wore a dazed, panicked expression. “I didn’t wish to be involved. It is rather a shock, you know. Finding a body.”

“If you were in such a state, ma’am,” Witherspoon pressed, “then how was it that you had the presence of mind to take the necklace?”

She said nothing for a moment. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to make it look like I killed her. But I didn’t. I didn’t, I tell you.”

Wearily Witherspoon shook his head. He glanced over at Barnes, who nodded. They had no other course of action. “Mrs. McCabe. We’re going to send a message to your brother…”

“No, don’t,” she cried. “There’s no need to drag Eldon into this. Please, can’t you just let me go home?”

“You don’t understand, ma’am,” Barnes said gently. “You’re not going home. You’re under arrest. We thought you’d want your family to know where you were so they could get you some legal help.”

She cocked her head to one side and stared at him. She
looked utterly stunned, as though she couldn’t believe what was happening. “Does that mean you’re going to put me in prison?”

Witherspoon hated this part. “Yes, ma’am, I’m rather afraid it does.”

“Marlena McCabe!” Mrs. Goodge snorted in disgust. “I’d have never thought it was her.”

“Why not?” Betsy demanded. “She had a motive. She didn’t want her sister-in-law going home to Australia.”

“That’s a pretty pathetic motive if ya ask me,” Luty put in. “Killin’ someone just so’s ya don’t get stuck takin’ care of your kinfolk. If she’da had any gumption, she’da told her brother she was leavin’ with or without his stupid allowance.”

“I must admit, I’m rather surprised,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“Ya coulda knocked us over with a feather, too,” Wiggins said.

“I’ve no idea why we were all so surprised,” Hatchet added, “it’s not as though there are a huge number of female suspects in this case. But when the inspector lifted that veil, we were all very taken aback.”

No one said anything for a moment. Everyone was too busy thinking about this evening’s events. Mrs. Goodge finally broke the silence. “I suppose that’s it then, it’s over. The inspector did it without much help from us, and that’s a fact.” She looked at the housekeeper. “You’ve not passed on much of what we learned, have you?”

“Not really,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “This time it didn’t appear as if the inspector needed our assistance. He was almost always a step or two ahead of us.”

Hatchet yawned. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” He apologized as he realized everyone was looking at him. “If there’s nothing else, I suppose the madam and I ought to be getting home. It is very late.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled wearily. It was late. They were all tired and the case, for all intents and purposes, was probably
solved. Then why did it feel so wrong? Why wasn’t she secure in her own mind that justice would be done? “We’re all very tired.”

Wiggins suddenly stood up. “You’re all goin’ to think I’m addled, but there’s something I’ve got to say. I don’t think it’s ’er. I don’t think she killed that woman. There’s somethin’ ’ere that’s not right.”

“You only think that ’cause you don’t want to admit we’ve not been much help on this one,” Mrs. Goodge said briskly. She got up. “I’m going to bed. I suggest the rest of you do the same.”

“We’d best be off too,” Luty said.

Smythe and Betsy said their goodnights as well and within just a few moments, it was only Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries left in the kitchen.

Mrs. Jeffries noticed the forgotten photograph. “Oh dear, Hatchet has forgotten this,” she said, picking it up.