Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (3 page)

He simply hoped it wasn’t going to be too awful.

“She’s right here, sir,” the PC standing guard called out as soon as he spotted the inspector. “We did just like Constable Barnes instructed, we didn’t touch anything.”

“Good lad.” Witherspoon swallowed heavily. He stopped next to the bench and looked down at the victim.

“She’s not all that young,” Barnes murmured. He’d come back to stand at the inspector’s elbow. “And her clothes don’t appear to be tampered with.”

“True,” Witherspoon replied. The victim was a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair peeking out of her sensible cloth bonnet. The hat skewed to the side revealed a few strands of gray at her temples. She wore a deep blue traveling dress with expensive gold buttons. Her feet, shod in black high button shoes, dangled off the end of the bench. “She’s tall,” Witherspoon muttered. “That bench is over five and a half feet long.” For a moment, he forgot his squeamishness. Except for the blood pooling underneath the bench she could almost be asleep. Her skin hadn’t taken on that hideous milk blue color he’d seen in other corpses. He rather suspected that meant she’d not been dead long.

“She’s not got any rings on sir.” Barnes pointed to her hands, both of which were splayed out to one side of the body. “So unless the killer stole them, I think we can assume she’s not married.”

“But the killer may very well have stolen her jewelry,” the inspector said. “As you can see, she’s not got a purse or
a reticule with her. Not unless it’s underneath the body.”

Taking a deep breath, he squatted down next to her. Barnes did the same. “Let’s turn her over,” Witherspoon instructed. Gently, the two men turned her on her side. The inspector winced. “She’s been stabbed. I rather thought that might be the case.”

“Poor woman.” Barnes shook his head in disgust. “And from the looks of that wound, it weren’t a clean, quick kill either.”

Witherspoon forced himself to examine the wounds more closely. The constable was right, the woman’s dress was in ribbons, and it was obvious, even to his untrained eye, that she’d been stabbed several times before she died.

“How many times do you reckon?” Barnes asked.

“It’s impossible to tell. The police surgeon ought to be able to give us an answer after he’s done the post mortem.”

“She might have screamed some,” Barnes said grimly. “As it looks like the first thrust didn’t kill her, maybe someone heard something.”

“Let’s hope so,” Witherspoon mumbled. “But I don’t have much hope for that. There’s a constable less than a quarter mile from here. Why didn’t someone go get him if they heard a woman screaming?”

Barnes shrugged. “You know how folks are, sir. Lots of them don’t want to get involved.”

Together, they gently lowered the body back down. Witherspoon stared at the poor woman and offered a silent prayer for her. There was nothing more they could learn from her. She’d gone to her final rest in the most heinous, awful manner possible. Now it was up to him to see that her killer was brought to justice.

Witherspoon cared passionately about justice.

“There’s nothing on her to identify her, sir.” Barnes stated. He stood up. “Nothing in her pockets and no purse or muff.”

“Hmmm.” The inspector frowned heavily. “We must find out who she is. Let’s give the garden a good search. There may be a clue here. You know what I always say, Barnes,
even the most clever of murderers leaves something behind.”

Barnes blinked in surprise. He’d never heard the inspector say anything of the sort. “Right, sir.”

“We’d best send a lad back to the station to see if there are reports of any missing persons matching the victim’s description.”

“Right, sir.”

“And I suppose I ought to send a message home”—Witherspoon stroked his chin thoughtfully—“and let them know I’m probably going to be late.” Drat. Tonight he’d planned on sitting in the communal gardens with Lady Cannonberry, his neighbor. But duty, unfortunately, must come before pleasure. “You’d better let your good wife know as well, Constable. Can’t have people worrying about us when we’re late for supper.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir.” Barnes replied with a grateful smile. He was touched by Witherspoon’s thoughtfulness. His good wife would worry if he was late.

They spent the next half an hour searching the area, but even with the help of five additional policemen, they found nothing in the square that gave them any indication of who their victim might be.

When the body had been readied for transport to the morgue, Witherspoon and Barnes followed it out to the street. They left two constables inside to guard the area and also to keep an eye out for who came and went in this garden.

The attendants loaded her into the van and trundled off. Witherspoon turned to his constable. “Right, we’ve a murder to solve, then. Let’s get cracking. Send some lads around on a house to house to see if anyone heard or saw anything.” His gaze swept the area. “I daresay, this is quite a nice area.”

“Very posh, sir,” Barnes replied. “And the garden is private, sir. That ought to make it easier.” He pointed to the gate. “You need a key to get inside. But there wasn’t a key on the victim, so that means she either knew her killer and came in with him or her, or the gate was already unlocked when she got here.”

“I suppose she could have scaled the fence,” Witherspoon muttered. He looked at the high, six-foot spiked railings and then shook his head. “No, that’s not likely. Not a woman of that age.”

Barnes smiled. “I agree, sir. I can’t see her leaping the ruddy thing.”

“I suppose she could have had a key and the killer took it with him after he’d stabbed her,” Witherspoon said thoughtfully.

“The only people with keys are residents of the square,” Barnes said. “Malcolm Tavistock said he’d never laid eyes on the woman before and he ought to know. He’s lived here for years.”

“Who?”

“Tavistock,” Barnes replied. “The man who found her.”

“Ah yes.” Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “Poor fellow. Finding a body isn’t a very nice way to start one’s day.”

“Neither is getting stabbed.”

“Right,” Witherspoon sighed. Sometimes he felt a bit inadequate for the task at hand. But then again, he’d try his very best. “Let’s get on with it. Where does Mr. Tavistock live?”

“This way, sir.”

The Tavistock house was directly across from the entrance to the garden. Like its neighbors, the dwelling was a pale gray, three-story townhouse with a freshly painted white front door. The inspector banged the shiny gold knocker, and almost instantly Malcolm Tavistock stuck his head out. “I suppose you want to come in?” he said grudgingly.

Witherspoon didn’t take offense at the man’s words. “That would be helpful, sir,” he replied. He was inclined to give the poor fellow the benefit of the doubt. The shock of stumbling across a body could make someone behave in the most appallingly rude way.

Tavistock gestured for them to step inside. “Hurry up,
then. Let’s get this over and done with. I’ve an appointment in a few moments.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward a set of open double doors off the foyer.

“I do beg your pardon, sir. But we’ll need a complete statement,” Witherspoon said as he and the constable followed Tavistock. They came into a large drawing room. The decor was nicely done, but hardly opulent or unusual. The walls were painted a dark green and the windows covered with heavy gold damask curtains. A huge fireplace, over which hung the requisite portrait of an ancestor, dominated the far end of the room. Fringe-covered tables, bookcases and overstuffed furniture completed the picture.

Tavistock flopped down on a mulberry-colored leather chair and gestured at the opposite settee. “Do sit down, then. I’d offer you tea, but I’ve no staff at the moment.”

“You’re here alone, sir?” Witherspoon asked. The house was large and well maintained. He’d be surprised if one person could take care of it alone.

“My servants aren’t due back until tomorrow,” Tavistock explained. “They weren’t expecting me home until the end of the week. I’ve been abroad.”

“On business, sir?” the constable asked. He’d taken out his notebook and flipped it open.

The inspector nodded approvingly at the constable’s initiative. He encouraged Barnes to participate in questioning witnesses.

“Hardly. Frankly, I can’t see that my reasons for being out of the country are anyone’s business but my own. Now, can we please get on with this? As I said, I’ve an appointment in a few moments.”

The inspector sighed inwardly. He did wish that people were a tad more respectful of the police. It wasn’t as if they came around disrupting people’s lives because they’d nothing better to do. “We’ll try to be as quick as possible. Can you tell us precisely how you came to find the body?”

“I didn’t find it,” Tavistock said. “Hector did. He dashed off down the footpath and a few moments later, he was kicking
up a terrible fuss. Not like him, he’s generally such a good dog, quite well behaved.”

Hector, licking his chops, ambled into the drawing room at just that moment. He took one look at the two policemen, snorted in a loud, bulldog fashion and then trotted over and planted his rather large behind firmly next to his master’s feet.

Witherspoon couldn’t help smiling. He liked dogs. Mind you, he didn’t think this one looked quite as intelligent as his own dog, Fred. But as Tavistock’s expression had brightened noticeably at the animal’s appearance, the inspector wisely kept his opinion to himself.

“What time was this, sir?” Barnes asked.

Tavistock thought for a moment. “Let me see, usually I take Hector out for his walkies at seven every morning, but as we’re a bit off our schedule, overslept as it were, I think it was closer to seven fifteen when we finally managed to get outside.”

Hector’s head snapped up at the word “walkies.” He whined softly. Tavistock reached down and absently patted him on the head. “Now, now, old fellow, we’ll go walkies later.”

“You went straight out your front door and directly into the garden, is that it?” Witherspoon asked. He’d learned it was most valuable to get time sequences sorted out correctly. He’d had some rather substantial success in the past solving crimes with the help of timetables.

Tavistock’s thin eyebrows rose in surprise. “Where else would I go? I was taking Hector for his morning walk. Of course I went straight from the house to the garden. Why would I pay a substantial amount of money each year for the upkeep of a private garden if I didn’t use it?”

“We’re only trying to establish all the facts, sir,” Barnes said smoothly. “You left here at seven fifteen and went straight across? You didn’t stop to talk with anyone?”

Tavistock nodded. “There was no one to speak to, Constable. Seven fifteen is quite early.”

“Is the garden always locked?” Witherspoon asked.

“Always. We’re most particular about that. Any resident that leaves it unlocked is subject to a fine.”

“I see.” The inspector nodded. “And how many people have keys?”

Tavistock frowned thoughtfully. “Well, there’s seven houses on the square. Each household is issued a key of course…no, no, I tell a lie. Mrs. Baldridge down at number one doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?” The inspector asked.

“She did have one, but you see, she doesn’t anymore. There was a terrible row over the hollyhocks.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The woman simply couldn’t get it through her head that the wretched flowers wouldn’t grow properly in that soil. So the garden committee decided to plant something else. She was most upset. She chucked her key at us and told us to go to the devil.”

The inspector tried not to smile. “But there are seven keys in existence, correct.”

“No, there’s eight. The gardener has one, of course.” Tavistock crossed his legs and leaned back.

“Could you give us the names of the other residents?” Barnes asked.

Tavistock glanced pointedly at a clock on the top of a cabinet a few feet away from where he sat. He sighed. “I’m going to be dreadfully late, Inspector. Can’t we do this another time? Say this afternoon perhaps?”

“We’re sorry to inconvenience you, sir,” Witherspoon explained. “But the sooner we begin our investigation, the sooner we can get this sorted out.”

“All right.” Tavistock shrugged. “Let’s, see, there’s Mrs. Baldridge at number one. She’s just across the square, but as I said, she had no key.”

“Who does have her key, sir?” Barnes asked.

Tavistock frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Mr. Heckston, I imagine. He’s the head of the committee…yes, he’s bound to have it. Mrs. Baldridge was aiming at his head when
she chucked the key. Quite a good aim for a woman her age. Smacked him right in the nose.”

Barnes ducked his head to hide a smile. “And who else, sir?”

“Mrs. Lucas at number two has a key.” He held up his fingers and ticked them off one by one as he spoke. “The Heckstons at number three, Colonel Bartell at number four, the Prospers at number six…”

“Who’s at number five?” Witherspoon asked.

“No one,” Tavistock said. “The owner died last year and the place has been empty ever since. I believe the rest of the family are in India or Canada. Let’s see now, where was I, oh yes. The Prospers, number six and lastly, there’s me, of course. I live here at number seven.”