Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (6 page)

“Your woman?” the other cabbie asked.

“Never you mind whose woman she is,” he said. “Let’s just say that whoever can help me find out which of you drovers took a fare to Sheridan Square this morning will be in fer a pretty penny.” He’d decided that greasing their palms with silver would work far better than trying to come up with some silly story explaining why he wanted to track the woman down.

“How much?” the red haired man asked.

Smythe wasn’t stupid enough to whip out his roll of bills in front of all and sundry. Nor was he going to part with cash until he had some information. “First you tell me which one is ’airy and then we’ll talk about how much.”

The cabbie eyed him suspiciously. “How do I know you’ll pay?”

“You don’t,” Smythe sighed impatiently. He didn’t want to stand here all day. “Look, you take me to this ’arry feller and I’ll make it worth yer while. Does that sound fair?”

The man thought about it for all of two seconds. “Fair enough.” He turned on his heel and started off down the road, away from the cab stand. “Come on, then. Get a move on. Harry’s not goin’ to be there long.”

Smythe nodded his thanks to the other cabbie and hurried after the tall redhead.

Wiggins tucked his small parcel neatly under his arm as he stood on the cobblestone road and gazed onto Sheridan Square. Opposite him was the garden where the poor lady had met her untimely death…to Wiggins any death not taken in a nice soft bed at the age of ninety was untimely. Wiggins bobbled to one side. He could see see the helmet of a constable on the far side of the garden. Probably a police constable guarding the entrance, he thought. He tucked the parcel of food under his arm, straightened his spine and strolled toward the action. After all, if anyone stopped him, he had a reason for being there.

He rounded the corner of the garden and saw that the gate was open. The constable on guard was a lad not much older than himself. Wiggins stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the thick bushes into the interior of the square. But all he could see were passing police helmets or the flash of a dark uniform as the lads searched the grounds.

He moved his gaze from the garden to the square itself. The houses were huge, well kept and reeking of money. Wiggins chuckled lightly. Most of the residents were too well-bred to show any interest in the police presence right under their noses, but they’d sent their servants out to pick up what gossip they could. In front of number six a tweeny energetically swept the doorstoop. Across from Wiggins, windows were being washed at another house and at a third, a footman was outside polishing the brass carriage lamps. None of them were paying more than passing attention to their tasks; they were all watching the garden.

Wiggins took a deep breath and started in the direction of the tweeny. A lad had to start somewhere and she was as good as any.

The girl didn’t even hear him approaching. She was staring hard at the garden. Wiggins, thinking she might have a better view from this end of the square, stopped a few feet away from her and took a gander himself. He could see nothing but
bushes and hedges. He glanced back at the girl. Her attention was still fixed on the square, the broom in her hands moving rhythmically back and forth as she brushed the same spot over and over. He headed towards her, taking care to walk heavily so that his footsteps sounded along the pavement. The girl started and whirled about.

“Sorry, miss,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she said defensively, “you startled me, that’s all.”

She was really very pretty, he thought. Beneath her conical maid’s cap, her hair was a deep brown color. Her eyes were hazel and her skin was perfect. “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “You was staring at that garden so hard you musta not ’eard me coming till I was right behind you. What’s happened?” He jerked his head at the square.

“Someone’s got murdered,” she replied. She turned her back on him and went back to sweeping.

Wiggins didn’t think this was a particularly good sign. But the fact that he’d have to talk to her back didn’t stop him. “Murdered? Really? How?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

He knew that was a lie. By now, he knew that every servant in the square knew how the victim had died. “Well, I can see talkin’ about it upsets you, miss,” he said sympathetically. “So I’ll not trouble you with any more questions. But could you tell me if you’ve seen a policeman…”

“I’ve seen half a dozen coppers,” she snapped over her shoulder. “They’re all over the garden and the square.”

“But I’m lookin’ for a particular one, miss,” he continued calmly. “An inspector. He’s my guv, he is. I’ve got a packet of food our cook sent over for ’im.”

The girl turned and stared at him. “You work for one of them policemen?”

“I work for the man in charge,” Wiggins bragged. “Inspector Witherspoon. If you’ve ’ad a murder ’ere, ’e’ll find
the killer. ’E’s ever so good at it, ’e is. Do you know where ’e is?”

She stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know where he’s gone,” she finally said. “He were here earlier talkin’ to the mistress, but then he left.”

“Left? You mean ’e’s gone back to the station?”

“How should I know?” Once again she turned her back on him and began to sweep. “It’s not for the likes of me to stick my nose into anything that don’t concern me.”

“But murder concerns everyone,” Wiggins protested. Then he clamped his mouth shut. His instincts were screaming at him to keep quiet for a moment. Something was going on here, something wasn’t right. He’d had dozens of conversations with servants that had been close to crimes or a crime scene, and not one of them had ever acted like this girl. She wasn’t excited or curious, and that just plain wasn’t right. He knew what a domestic’s life was like. Anything out of the ordinary, anything that took you away from the drudgery of your work, even for a few moments, was cause for excitement.

But the girl wasn’t excited.

She was angry. Wiggins chewed his lower lip as he thought about what to do next. He noticed her hands were clamped around the broom handle so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, and her expression was closed and grim.

“Uh, miss,” he said tentatively, “I’m really sorry I startled you.”

“It’s all right,” she muttered. “Now get on with you. I’ve work to do.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he continued, racking his brain for some way of prolonging the conversation. “I really didn’t. You won’t get in trouble will ya? I mean, you’ll not get the sack just because I stopped and spoke to ya?”

“Not if you go away now,” she said. “But if you hang about chatting, they’ll toss me out on my ear. Now get off with you.”

“Cor blimey, you must work for a strict household.”

The girl laughed. “You could say that. Go on, go find your inspector.”

Wiggins hesitated. He sensed he’d missed his opportunity to get any more information out of the girl, but he was loath to give up so easily. He opened his mouth to ask another silly question when the front door flew open and an older woman stuck her head out. “Fiona, get in here. You’re not to spend all day sweeping that pavement.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, “I’m just coming.” She picked up her broom and disappeared around the side of the house.

Wiggins watched her leave and promised himself he’d come back later. He glanced at the house number and made a mental note that it was number six. It wouldn’t do to forget where the girl lived. That Fiona knew something. He’d bet his next meal on it.

Timothy Heckston sat behind his huge rosewood desk and tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk pad. He was of late middle age but still had a head of thick blond hair, a sharp-pointed chin, thin lips and prominent cheekbones. “I’m sorry to be so unhelpful, gentlemen,” he said with a shrug. “But there’s little else I can tell you.”

“Are you absolutely certain there are only seven keys to the garden, sir?” Inspector Witherspoon asked.

“Eight, Inspector,” Heckston corrected. “Eight keys. Each house on the square is issued one, and the gardener has one as well.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Tavistock told us that.” Witherspoon nodded.

“Are you still in possession of Mrs. Baldridge’s key, sir?” Barnes asked. “I believe she, uh, gave it back to you.”

Heckston broke into a grin. “Heard about that, did you? She didn’t give it to me, sir. She threw it at my head.”

Barnes smiled. “We understand Mrs. Baldridge is a great lover of hollyhocks.”

“Silly woman couldn’t understand that the wretched things wouldn’t grow in the garden.” He stood up, walked across the room to a small cupboard next to the door. Taking a small key out of his pocket, he unlocked the cupboard and opened it. “You’d have thought we were deliberately trying to upset her. I was as gentle as possible…” he stopped and a frown crossed his face. “That’s odd. It’s not here.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and then said, “What’s not there, sir?”

“The key.” Heckston turned and stared at them, his expression puzzled. “Mrs. Baldridge’s key isn’t there. It’s gone.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Barnes asked. He and the inspector had both risen to their feet. They crossed the room and stood behind Heckston’s shoulder. The cupboard was lined with three rows of hooks. The top two rows had keys of various sizes hanging from them with small, white labels affixed beneath them. The bottom row, the row labeled “Garden Keys” was completely empty.

Heckston pointed to the last hook on that row. “Mrs. Baldridge’s key was right here.”

“Could it have been misplaced, sir?” Barnes asked.

Heckston shook his head. “No one opens this cupboard but me, sir. I always keep it locked.”

“What about other members of your household?” Witherspoon prodded.

“Other than myself, there’s only my wife who has a key. She’d have no reason to bother with garden keys.”

“When was the last time you saw the key, sir?” the inspector asked quickly. He’d found that if one kept up a steady stream of questions, one sometimes found that the person one was questioning didn’t have time to make up any lies.

“The last time.” Heckston frowned. “Let’s see. I suppose it must have been last week. Yes, yes, that’s right. I opened up the cupboard to get the key to the wine cellar.”

“Was it possible the key fell out or was accidentally taken?” Barnes pressed.

“No, as you can see, the hooks are rounded so that keys can’t be knocked off accidentally.”

“Was anyone else in the room with you?” Witherspoon asked. “I mean, did anyone else know where the key was kept?”

Heckston hesitated. “Well, I suppose so. I opened the cupboard in front of the whole garden committee. We were having a meeting, you see. We always meet in the study. It keeps things more businesslike, moves the whole process along a bit faster, if you know what I mean. Long meetings are so tireseome.”

“So you’re saying, sir,” Barnes said quietly, “that everyone on the square knew where the spare key was kept?”

Heckston nodded glumly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Which means that anyone could have taken the key. No offense meant, Mr. Heckston, but that lock doesn’t look to be very sturdy.” Witherspoon said. Drat. This wasn’t going to be an easy one to solve.

CHAPTER 3