Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (5 page)

“No,” Mrs. Jeffries said bluntly. A plan was rapidly forming in her mind. “I’m not having you on, so to speak. But I do have an idea. We need to know the identity of our victim as soon as possible. I’m going to have Mrs. Goodge make up
a parcel of food for you to take to our inspector. But you’re not to give it to him. You’re to hang on to it and use it as your excuse to poke about and see what’s going on.”

By the puzzled frown on the lad’s face, she could see he didn’t quite get what she was trying to tell him. “What I mean is that you’re to make sure you don’t make contact with our inspector until the last possible moment…but having the food with you will give you an excuse to be hanging about listening and, if you’re very clever, asking a few questions. If anyone asks what you’re doing there, you can say you’re bringing the inspector something to eat.”

“Now I get it,” he bobbed his head eagerly. “I’m to hang about and learn what I can and use the food parcel as my reason for bein’ there.”

“Correct.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll have the food ready,” Mrs. Goodge said as she bustled toward the pantry. “There’s some buns and cheese I can put in as well as a few plums.”

“What are you going to be doing?” Betsy asked as she slipped her hat off the coat tree. “Will you be out asking questions as well?”

“No, I’ll be right here,” Mrs. Jeffries replied firmly. “Holding down the fort as it were.”

“Should we start here, sir?” Barnes pointed to the door of the house next to the Tavistock residence. Number six was much like its neighbor. As a matter of fact, it, along with virtually every other house in the square was almost identical. All of them had freshly painted white doors, and all of them were of the same uniform light gray color. The only difference between the Tavistock home and the one the constable pointed at was the color of the curtains. The ones in the windows of number six were a dark midnight blue.

Witherspoon nodded. “I suppose this is as good a place as any.” He started up the pavement toward the short set of stairs leading to the front door. “This is going to be quite
tedious, Constable. We’re going to have to talk to every household on the square.”

“Yes, sir,” Barnes replied glumly. “I know.”

The door to number six was opened before they even knocked by a cheery-faced maid. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said chattily. “You’re the police, aren’t you?”

“Good day, miss. You’re quite correct, we are the police,” Witherspoon replied. “We’d like to speak with the head of your household if we could.”

“That’d be Mr. Prosper,” the maid replied, “and he ain’t here. He’s in Edinburgh on business. Will Mrs. Prosper do?”

“That will be fine.”

The maid nodded and ushered them inside. “Just go on into the drawing room, sir,” she instructed, pointing to an open doorway down the hall, “and I’ll get the mistress.”

“Thank you,” the inspector replied. He blinked in surprise as he entered the drawing room.

“Blimey, sir,” Barnes muttered with a quick look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t overheard, “there’s enough in here to open a shop.”

Settees, overstuffed chairs, ottomans, bookcases and cabinets crowded the huge room. Along the walls, portraits, hunting and pastoral scenes and boldly garish wall sconces competed for attention. Along the tops of the cabinets and bookcases there were knickknacks of porcelain and silver. Chinese vases, fringed shawls and elegantly draped midnight-blue curtains gave the room an air of oriental mystery. Witherspoon shook his head. “You’re quite right, Constable. I do believe one could easily stock a shop, and it appears that the stock would be quite expensive too. None of this looks cheap.”

The constable pointed to a pair of ceramic shepherds sitting atop a small cherry wood table in the corner. “The missus saw just one of them in a shop window a few weeks back, wanted a pretty penny for it too.”

“I understand you want to see me?” A cool female voice said from behind them.

Witherspoon, blushing to the roots of his thinning hair,
whirled about. “I’m dreadfully sorry, madam,” he said to the tall, elegantly dressed woman standing in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in. We were just admiring your porcelain. It’s quite lovely.”

“Thank you.” She nodded regally. She was a woman who was in her early thirties. Her hair was a light brown, her eyes blue and her face dun and fine boned. Slender and tall, she wore a morning dress of brilliant blue with white lace flounces along the neck and wrists. “I’m Annabelle Prosper. The maid said you wished to speak with me.”

“Yes ma’am,” Witherspoon introduced himself and the constable. “We do hate to disturb you,” he continued, “but we’re in the position that we must get statements from all the households in the square.”

“Please sit down.” She nodded toward the nearest settee while she took a seat on the one opposite. “What is this about?”

“I’m afraid something rather unfortunate has happened in your garden,” the inspector said. “There’s been a murder.”

She started in surprise. “A murder. In our garden? But that’s absurd. It’s locked.”

“Absurd as it may be,” the inspector assured her, “it still happened. The victim was a middle-aged woman. She had nothing on her person to identify her. Is anyone from your household missing?”

“No.” Mrs. Prosper shook her head. “Everyone’s here.”

“Are you quite certain about that, ma’am?” Barnes asked. “This is a big house. Have you seen all your staff?”

Annabelle Prosper raised one delicately arched eyebrow. “I’m quite sure, Constable. In my husband’s absence, I preside over morning prayers. I assure you, the entire staff was present.”

“We weren’t doubting your word, ma’am,” Witherspoon interjected hastily.

“Annabelle, I’ve heard there are some policemen here…Oh, goodness, it’s true, then.” A short, dark-haired rather plump woman of middle years hurried into the drawing room.

“Really, Marlena, must you be so precipitous?” Annabelle shot the woman a disapproving frown.

The woman ignored her and advanced toward the two men. “Hello, I’m Marlena McCabe, Mrs. Prosper’s sister-in-law.”

Witherspoon and Barnes both got to their feet. He looked pointedly at Mrs. Prosper, who rather grudgingly introduced the two policemen. “We were just having a word with Mrs. Prosper,” he explained after the pleasantries had been exchanged.

“About the murder in the garden?” Marlena said eagerly.

“How did you know about that, ma’am?” Barnes asked.

She laughed. “Really, Constable, did you think you’d be able to keep it a secret? There’s police all over the square. I heard it from Maggie, our tweeny, and she got it from Colonel Bartell’s scullery maid. Is it true that a woman’s been stabbed and her head cut off?”

“Marlena!” Annabelle Prosper snapped. “Must you be so…so…”

“No one got their head cut off, ma’am,” Witherspoon said quickly. “But we did find the body of a woman. That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to determine who she might be.”

“How exciting,” Marlena flopped down next to her sister-in-law. “Maybe I can be of some help.”

“You don’t know anything,” Mrs. Prosper chided. “Honestly, Marlena, you ought to be be ashamed of yourself. You mustn’t interfere with an official police inquiry simply because you find it exciting.”

“I do too know something,” she replied, glaring at her sister-in-law. She looked at the policemen. “Was the woman quite tall, wearing a plain hat and a blue traveling dress?”

Witherspoon and Barnes straightened to attention. “She was,” the inspector said. “Do you know her? Can you tell us who she is?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” she replied. “But I can tell you when she arrived at the square. I saw her getting out of a hansom about five this morning.”

“You saw her?” Barnes prompted.

“From the front hall,” Marlena explained. “I’d come downstairs to get a glass of water. No one was up at that hour, of course, and it was very quiet. I heard a carriage come into the square—they make a terrible racket, you see. It’s the horses’ hooves on those cobblestones on the north side.”

“You’re digressing, Marlena,” Mrs. Prosper said. Now, she too looked interested. “Do go on.”

“Well.” Marlena nodded importantly. “As I said, I heard a carriage come in. Of course, I thought it might be Eldon back from Scotland…”

“Eldon’s not due until this evening,” Mrs. Prosper interrupted.

“Yes, I know that. But he does hate being away from home, and I thought he might have come back early, you see.” She paused for breath. “As I was saying, I heard the carriage and, thinking it might be Eldon, I went to that window.” She pointed toward the end of the room facing the square, “and had a look. But it wasn’t Eldon, it was this woman. She got out of a hansom right in front of Mr. Tavistock’s house. Of course, that’s right next door.”

“Did you see her go into the garden?” Witherspoon asked.

She shook her head. “No, I went back upstairs.”

“Did you hear anything after that? Anything at all that struck you as odd.” Witherspoon didn’t wish to put words in the woman’s mouth, but perhaps she’d heard a scream or a scuffle.

“I’m afraid not.” She shrugged apologetically. “My room is on the second floor at the back of the house. I heard nothing.”

“And you’re sure about the time,” Barnes pressed. “It was five o’clock in the morning.”

“Quite sure,” Marlena McCabe said firmly. “The clock in the hall had just struck the hour when I heard the hansom come into the square. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“You’ve been most helpful, indeed, ma’am,” Witherspoon said gratefully. “At least now we know the victim was still
alive at five this morning.” He got to his feet.

Barnes, flicking his notebook shut, got up as well. “Do you remember if the garden gate was closed?” he asked as he tucked the book in his pocket.

Mrs. McCabe’s brows drew together in thought. “I don’t think, I know. Frankly, I wasn’t looking at the garden. I was looking at the hansom. My attention was turned toward the Tavistock house. I’ve no idea if the gate was open or closed.”

“I quite understand, ma’am.” Witherspoon wished that people were more observant. But he could hardly say so. Especially as this woman was the first helpful witness they’d come across. “As I said, you’ve been most helpful.”

“Thank you,” she replied. But she wasn’t looking at the policemen; she was smirking at Mrs. Prosper. “Well, what do you think, Annabelle, have I been helpful or not?”

Annabelle smiled thinly. Clearly, she didn’t like being shown up in front of strangers. “As the inspector said, dear, you’ve been most helpful. Most helpful indeed.”

“Look, it’s not as if I’m askin’ ya to fly to the moon and back,” Smythe said in disgust. “All I want is a bit of information.”

The cabbie yawned and rubbed his face. He leaned against the side of the small building that housed the hansom stand. Inside his mates were drinking tea and having a bit of a rest. “You may as well ask me to fly to the moon. It’s not as if you’re wantin’ to know if someone picked up a fare at Sheridan Square. You’re wantin’ to know who took a fare there. It coulda been from anywhere in the city, mate. It’da been a mite sight easier if it were the other way around. It woulda have to have been one of the local blokes if it were a pickup, but as it were a drop, it coulda come from anywhere.”

Smythe knew it was pointless getting irritated. The cabbie was right. As the victim had been dropped off and not picked up at the square, she could have come from anywhere around London. The two-mile rule only covered picking up passengers, not dropping them off. He sighed and shoved away from
the lamppost he’d been leaning against. This had been a blooming wasted trip. He’d had sod all luck. No one knew anything. “All right, then, thanks for yer ’elp.”

“Weren’t much ’elp, mate.” The cabbie shrugged sympathetically. “Not much I can tell ya. None of us around here took that fare.”

“What fare?” A tall, rawboned cabbie with red hair poking out of a battered bowler strolled up to the men.

“A fare to Sheridan Square.”

“Harry did,” the cabbie said slowly as he raked Smythe’s plain working clothes with a practised eye. “Why? What’s it to you?”

“I’m lookin’ fer someone,” Smythe replied. “A woman.”