Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (27 page)

“Are you Abigail Moulton?” he asked. But he knew in his heart that she was.

“Don’t be absurd. I’m Annabelle Prosper.”

“You are not,” Tom Faversham interrupted. “You’re Abigail Moulton, and I can bring ten people here tomorrow to prove it. What have you done with Miss Annabelle? She got off the ship with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know perfectly well what I’m on about,” Faversham cried. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here properly married to that Prosper fellow?”

The woman said nothing.

“Leave my wife alone,” Eldon Prosper ordered. He tried to break through the small circle of constables but couldn’t. “You’ve no right to handle her in such a fashion. No right at all. I’ll have my solicitors on you, you can be sure of that.”

“I’m afraid your wife is under arrest,” Witherspoon replied.

“That’s ridiculous,” Prosper charged. “First you arrest my sister, and now you’re trying to malign my wife. I’ll not have it, I tell you. Annabelle, don’t say a word to them. I’ll bring Jackson to the station. We’ll get this sorted out. You’re not to worry about a thing, love. Not a thing.”

Witherspoon ignored him. “Mrs. Abigail Moulton, you’re under the arrest for the murder of Mirabelle Daws and Annabelle Daws. Constable, please caution her and take her down to the station.”

Prosper protested the whole time they were leading her away. But in the end, he finally gave up and hurried off to get his solicitor.

“How did you know it was her?” Barnes asked as they walked back towards the grave site. “I mean, how did you know what was going to happen?” He was rather awed by the quick turn of events. He knew his inspector was brilliant, but this was above and beyond anything he’d ever seen. “I mean, uh, what did happen? Who’s Abigail Moulton, and why would she want to murder Mirabelle Daws?”

Witherspoon sighed. “It’s rather a long story, Constable. Luckily, I had a little chat with my housekeeper last night. She filled me in on some gossip she’d heard about the Daws women.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Barnes said. “How did you know something was goin’ to happen today?”

“I didn’t. But I think someone else did. Someone who badly wanted to see justice done in this case. I’ll tell you all about it on the way back to the station.” He closed his eyes and briefly thanked heaven for housekeepers who couldn’t sleep. “I wouldn’t have figured it out except that Mrs. Jeffries told me the most amusing story. Remember that telegram I received giving us the identity of the dead woman?”

“Yes, sir, if we’d not got that telegram, that Mrs. Moulton would have gotten away with murder. If we’d not found out the victim’s identity, we’d never have solved this case.”

“Right,” Witherspoon agreed. “Well, the telegram was signed by a fellow named Rollo Puffy. My housekeeper told me she’d remembered where she’d heard that name before. You recall that Mrs. Jeffries used to be married to a police officer up in Yorkshire. He was always telling her tales he’d collected from all over the world. It seems that Rollo Puffy was once a rather rich eccentric in San Francisco. Then the name was used by quite a successful con artist. His specialty was pretending to be someone he wasn’t.”

“That’s remarkable, sir,” Barnes mumbled. He still didn’t know what was going on or how the inspector had solved the case. Perhaps by the time they got back to the station, everything would begin to make sense.

They arrived back at the open grave. Witherspoon nodded politely to the vicar, knelt down and closed his eyes. Silently and earnestly he prayed for the soul of Mirabelle Daws.

“It was her, all right,” Wiggins said excitedly. “You should ’ave seen it when she saw the purser comin’ at ’er. She took off like a cat runnin’ from the ’ounds.”

“It was a right strange sight,” Smythe agreed.

They were all gathered around the table at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Wiggins and Smythe, after a long and arduous night of rousting out witnesses, had hidden in the cemetery to watch the proceedings. They’d then nipped back to give their report.

“Seems to me you were lucky,” Luty snipped. She was out of sorts because it was Hatchet’s photograph that had saved the day. “What if that woman hadn’t been Abigail Moulton? You’d have made a right fool of the inspector.”

“But we knew it were ’er,” Wiggins said eagerly. “That’s why we were up all night. We ’ad to nip down to Southampton lickety split, roust Mr. Faversham and get ’im back up ’ere. But before he did his part at the cemetery, we stopped at Sheridan Square.” He stuffed a piece of ginger cake in his mouth.

“Can’t you wait to feed your face until you finish telling us what happened?” Betsy cried.

“The lad’s starved,” Smythe said. “It was a long night. But like he said, we stopped at Sheridan Square and waited for the funeral party to leave the Prosper ’ouse. That’s when Tom Faversham confirmed the woman were Abigail Moulton and not Annabelle Prosper.”

“Then you had him go on to the cemetery and pretend to get that telegram from the inspector?” Mrs. Goodge was still a bit puzzled over the sequence of events. “Is that right?”

“Right.” Smythe nodded. “He was right ’appy to do it. Seems he liked the real Annabelle Prosper. When we explained what we thought might ’ave happened, he was keen to ’elp us.” The coachman didn’t bother to tell them he’d paid the man fifty quid for his trouble.

Hatchet raised his teacup to Mrs. Jeffries. “Madam, I salute you for a brilliant piece of detective work.”

“I’ll not take the credit for this one,” she said stoutly. “All of you helped solve this puzzle.”

“I still don’t know that I understand what happened,” the cook cried. “Why did Abigail Moulton kill Mirabelle Daws, and how come everyone thought she was Annabelle Daws?”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled sympathetically. “It is a complicated case because it really began when Annabelle came to England to marry Eldon Prosper. As you told us, Mrs. Goodge, Annabelle’s former employer came on the ship with her. Abigail Moulton apparently realized that no one in England had ever seen Annabelle Daws. I think that she decided when they arrived here, rather than live as a disgraced widow and a poor relation, she’d take Annabelle’s place. After all, she knew that Annabelle was coming here to marry a rich man and be the mistress of a fine house. Whereas she, disgraced by her husband’s embezzlement and suicide, was going to have to go to the north of England and live with relatives who would probably make her life miserable. I suspect she decided to murder Annabelle before the ship even reached Southampton. She wanted to take her place.”

“But how could she?” Betsy asked. “Surely Eldon Prosper would have realized the woman he’d married wasn’t the woman he’d been corresponding with?”

“I imagine she had Annabelle’s letters,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

“That stands to reason,” Luty said thoughtfully. “Most women would hang on to the letters they got from the man they was fixin’ to marry.”

“Remember, Annabelle had been her maid. She’d probably confided all manner of things to Abigail,” Hatchet added.

“Where would she get rid of the body?” Betsy asked.

“Oh, I imagine Annabelle Daws ended up in the Thames.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head sadly. “Poor woman never had a chance. Then, of course, when Abigail got the letter from Mirabelle saying she was coming for a visit, she knew her masquerade would be exposed. She had to kill Mirabelle. So she sent her a message to meet her in the garden early in the morning. I’m sure she knew about Mirabelle’s concern for her. Mirabelle made no secret of the fact that she thought something was wrong at the Prosper household.”

“So she sends her a mysterious note.” Luty picked up the thought. “And then lies in wait for her out in the garden. But
how on earth did she think she’d not get caught? A dead woman in a posh place like Sheridan Square is goin’ to raise a fuss.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “But the fuss would die down when the dead woman wasn’t identified. That’s what she was counting on. That no one would know that it was Mirabelle Daws who was the victim. She’d not realized that both her husband and her sister-in-law knew about Mirabelle’s visit and had reasons of their own to fear it.”

“What did she do with Mirabelle’s things?” Wiggins asked.

“I’m not sure,” the housekeeper said, “but I’ve a feeling that if the police search that empty house on Sheridan Square, they’ll not only find Mirabelle’s things, but perhaps Annabelle’s as well. We had a report that noises had been heard in that place.”

“I still think it’s remarkable that you put it all together, madam,” Hatchet said.

“Not really,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Actually, once Luty told us the story of Rollo Puffy and then Wiggins identifed the woman in the photograph, it was simple. After that, everything made sense. The fact that Mrs. Prosper wouldn’t respond to her sister’s letters, those sudden hysterics at the mortuary…”

“What about ’em?” Luty asked.

“Remember, the inspector said she was quite calm until they started into the viewing room. Then she suddenly threw herself in her husband’s arms and got hysterical. But she did it just as the purser, who knew her as Abigail Moulton, was coming out of that very room. She didn’t want him to see her, and she had to act fast. I think what really set it in my own mind was when Wiggins said she’d sent the purser a note telling him not to attend the funeral service. That was simply out of character for someone of Annabelle’s background.”

“What about Mrs. McCabe and the necklace?” Hatchet asked.

“I think she’s telling the truth, or at least a part of it.”

“I think she spotted Mirabelle arrivin’,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “Remember, she was the one that heard the hansom cab arrive that morning and saw Mirabelle get out. I think she waited a bit to go out to the garden, not knowing exactly why Mirabelle was there, and then when she did go out, she saw the woman had been stabbed. So she took the necklace and ran.”

“But why didn’t she tell the police?” Betsy asked.

“Because she thought her brother ’ad done the killin’,” Smythe said softly. “Remember, Fiona told Wiggins she’d seen Prosper that night. Probably Mrs. McCabe ’ad seen ’im too, and she didn’t know that her sister-in-law wasn’t Annabelle, so she didn’t think she’d have a reason to murder the woman. Stands to reason she’d think it was her brother.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Smythe. I do believe that’s how it must have happened.”

“How did you convince the inspector to go along?” Luty asked.

“I didn’t.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “I merely planted a few seeds last night when the inspector got home.” She nodded appreciatively at the cook. “It’s amazing how useful a bit of gossip turns out to be.”

The inspector arrived home quite late that evening. He insisted on eating in the kitchen, rather than have the staff go to the trouble of bringing his dinner to the dining room.

“I say, this soup is excellent.” He smiled appreciatively at the cook.

“Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “I thought you might be hungry, sir. Mrs. Jeffries told us you’d had quite an eventful day.”

He given the housekeeper a brief synopsis when he was hanging up his coat and hat.

“Indeed it has been eventful,” he replied. “And it looks as if it’s going to be a long and arduous trial. Mrs. Prosper
is being represented by one of the best legal firms in England.”

“How can she afford that?” Wiggins asked. He was helping Mrs. Jeffries put the copper pot on the top shelf of the pine bureau.

“She can’t, but her husband can,” he said. “Eldon Prosper has plenty of money. Our task is not going to be an easy one. Not only must we prove that she murdered Mirabelle Daws, but that she murdered Annabelle as well.”

“You mean that Mr. Prosper is still goin’ to help the woman, knowin’ that she killed ’is real fiancée?” Wiggins was shocked.

“I’m afraid so,” Witherspoon sighed. “He told me he didn’t care who the woman was; she was his wife, and he loved her. He’s going to do whatever he can to save her. Well, he might be able to save her from hanging, but I don’t think he’ll save her from prison. Even without Annabelle’s body, we’ve a strong case against her.” He suddenly looked around the kitchen. “I say, where are Smythe and Betsy?”