Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (9 page)

Witherspoon blushed. “Er, I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward about Betsy and Smythe. It’s just that I feel responsible for the girl…not that Smythe would ever do anything dishonorable…oh dear, I’m not very good at this sort of thing, am I?”

Mrs. Jeffries knew precisely what he meant. “On the contrary, sir. You’re excellent at it, sir.”

“You’re most kind, Mrs. Jeffries,” he sighed. “I must admit, I do wish that Smythe would get on with it. I think we could all sleep a good deal better if he’d just make his intentions clear to us all. I’m sure he wants to marry Betsy.”

“I’m sure he will marry her,” she replied. “Eventually. But I don’t think that either of them is in any hurry.” She really didn’t want to discuss Smythe and Betsy’s courtship. She wanted to talk about the murder. “How did your investigation go today, sir? Was it dreadful?”

“Oh, not as awful as it could have been.” He made a face and took another quick sip of sherry. “The poor woman had been stabbed in the back. But it wasn’t as messy as some I’ve seen.”

“Do you have any idea of why she was killed?”

“None at all.”

“Were there any witnesses, sir?”

“Not really,” he sighed again. “Though we do have two people who heard some unusual activity last night. “I say, Mrs. Jeffries, it’s the oddest thing. I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

“Oh, do tell me, sir,” she pleaded with a smile. “You know how interested I am in your cases.”

He smiled happily. It was always such a relief to talk his cases out. It always gave him a new perspective on the crime. “Let’s see, where should I begin?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you thought was so odd, sir?” she suggested. “I’m terribly curious.”

“Good idea.” He reached for his glass again. “You know the victim was found in Sheridan Square. That’s quite a nice area. Rather expensive and large houses. There’s only seven residences around the square, and what was odd was that we had someone from a house at each end of the square hear something early this morning.”

“What did they hear, sir?”

“Mrs. Baldridge—she lives at number one, that’s at one end of the square—claims she heard someone creeping by her windows early in the morning. Yet we’ve evidence from Mrs. McCabe, who lives at the other end of the square, that she heard a hansom come into the square a good half hour after Mrs. Baldridge swears she heard footsteps. It’s most mystifying.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t find it in the least mystifying. “How so, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” he muttered, “it just is. I mean, was it the killer creeping about at half past four, and or was it the victim?”

“I should think it was the killer,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “Why would the victim try to be quiet? By the way, have you any idea who the poor woman might be?”

“No,” he sighed again. “We haven’t a clue. I tell you, it’s all very, very, confusing.”

“It’s always confusing in the beginning, sir,” she said stoutly. “But you know how very, very good you are at solving murders, sir. You’ll catch the killer in the end. You always do.”

“It’s reassuring that you have such faith in my abilities,” he said sofly. “But sometimes I doubt myself.”

“Nonsense, sir. You should never doubt yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled. “I must admit, it does help to talk about it. You know, the people on that square were a tad uncooperative. You’d think they’d do everything they could to help us solve this case, especially as it was right on their own doorstep, so to speak.”

“Indeed, you would, sir,” she agreed.

He continued talking about the murder. Mrs. Jeffries occasionally clucked her tongue or asked a question. By the time he’d finished his sherry, he’d told her every little detail about the crime.

“You must have had quite a day, sir,” she commented, when it was apparent he’d told her everything he knew. “I expect you’d like your dinner now.”

“Oh yes, I am a bit hungry.” He got up and started for the dining room. “What’s Mrs. Goodge laid on for us this evening?”

“Lancashire hot pot, sir.” She followed him out into the hall, “and there’s lemon tarts for dessert, sir.”

They were almost at the dining room when there was a loud knock on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries turned and started in that direction.

“No, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon gently pulled her back. “This time of night I don’t want you or Betsy answering the door.”

“It’s not that late, sir,” she protested.

“Nevertheless, I’d feel better if you let me get it.” With that, he marched down the hall and threw open the front door.

“Telegram for Inspector Witherspoon, sir,” a young lad in a messenger’s uniform said.

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon.” He reached for the pale brown envelope the boy held out. “Thank you,” he said as he took the telegram in one hand and reached in his trouser pocket with the other. Withdrawing a coin, he handed it to the lad. “For your trouble.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said as he pocketed the money.

Witherspoon closed the door and stared at the envelope as though he’d never seen one before.

“Aren’t you going to open it, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I ought to.” The inspector grinned sheepishly and tore it open. Taking out the slender, thin yellow paper, he read it quickly. His eyebrows rose, and Mrs. Jeffries noticed he read the page again. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “This is most extraordinary. Most extraordinary, indeed.”

“What is it, sir?”

“Let me read it to you. ‘Dear Inspector,’” he read, “‘The woman who was stabbed in Sheridan Square is one Miss Mirabelle Daws. She arrived from Australia yesterday evening on a ship called the
Island Star
.’”

“Goodness, sir, that is extraordinary.” Mrs. Jeffries wondered if it were Betsy’s or Luty’s idea to provide the name of the vessel. She wasn’t sure they ought to have given so much away, but it wasn’t her plan. “Who is it from?”

“That’s extraordinary as well.” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

“You mean it’s unsigned?”

“It’s signed; it’s just I’ve never heard of this person.” He shook his head and glanced back at the message. “It’s signed, ‘Your humble servant, Rollo Puffy.’”

“And you’ve no idea who he is?” she asked. Really, where did Luty come up with these strange names?

“I’ve no idea. No idea at all.”

“You’re certain, sir?” She pressed. She wanted to make sure there wasn’t a real Rollo Puffy out and about somewhere in London. Occasionally, Luty’s sense of humor overcame her good sense.

“Absolutely, Mrs. Jeffries,” he insisted. “I don’t think I’d ever forget meeting someone with a name like that.”

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, Betsy was still furious. She ignored the admiring glances of the young lad sweeping the sidewalk in front of the fishmonger and charged toward her destination, a grocer on the far corner. She wasn’t on Sheridan Square, but the nearest shopping street to it. She was determined to have something useful to tell the others this afternoon.

When Smythe—she kicked a small pebble out of her way—finally took it into his head to come home today, she wanted to make damned sure she had something better to report than he did.

She dodged around a fruit-loaded hand cart blocking the pavement in front of a greengrocer and kept on walking. She might as well see what the shopkeepers had to say. At least now she had a name.

It wasn’t simply rivalry that had prompted her to leave the house so early this morning in search of clues. Yesterday she’d been deeply, deeply hurt. She’d been so sure she and Smythe were coming to an understanding, had truly gotten to know each other. She’d told him things about herself she’d never shared with anyone, and he, the ruddy sod, hadn’t bothered to tell her a blooming thing. Though that wasn’t quite true, she was in no mood to be fair.

Luckily, by the time she arrived at the grocer’s, she’d walked some of her anger off. Pulling open the door, she stepped inside. As it was just past opening, she was the only customer in the place.

“Can I help you, miss?” a thin-faced young man said from behind the counter.

“Yes, thank you.” Betsy gave him her most dazzling smile. “I’d like a tin of Bird’s Custard Powder, Epps Cocoa and some Adam’s Furniture Polish, if you have it.”

“We’ve all those things, Miss.” He blushed deeply. “I’ll get them for you.”

In a few moments, the items she’d ordered were on the counter in front of her. “I say, isn’t it awful about that poor woman they found murdered over on Sheridan Square?”

“It’s dreadful, miss. Right dreadful.” He tallied up the bill on a sheet of brown paper. “We don’t often get things like that in this neighborhood. Well, you can see by the houses and such it’s a very nice area.”

“I hear she was stabbed clean throught the heart,” Betsy continued. “Poor Miss Daws, she simply didn’t stand a chance, did she? Not with someone out to murder her.”

He looked up from his figures. “Daws?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Betsy said quickly. “I heard it was a lady named Mirabelle Daws…”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” He shook his head. “Awful isn’t it, how people simply don’t get things right?”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Well.” He dropped his pencil onto the countertop. “There was a Miss Annabelle Daws in this neighborhood…”

“Is she dead too?”

“No, no, she’s not dead, she’s married. She’s now Mrs.
Eldon Prosper. She’s also alive and well, so I don’t think she could be the woman who was murdered.”

Betsy stared at him so hard that he blushed again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so…”

“Don’t apolgize.” She gave him that dazzling smile again. She’d struck gold. “It’s I who should be apologizing to you. I must say, you must be ever so clever to know so much about the people in your neighborhood.”

“I’m not really very clever,” he replied, “it’s really my mum. She owns this place. She’d talk the hair off a dog, she would. She doesn’t mind asking the most impertinent questions. A lot of housemaids and tweenies come in here, Mum talks them half to death before they can get what they’re after an’ make an escape. Mind you, she doesn’t mean any harm, she simply likes to know about people. That’s how come I know the name
Daws
. Mum knows everything about everyone around here.”

Betsy dearly wished it was the mother standing in front of her and not the son. “Your mum sounds a right nice person,” she said stoutly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know a bit about people, is there? It’s natural, isn’t it? Uh, is your mum going to be here anytime soon?”

“Nah, she’s gone to Cheshire to visit my gran.” He shrugged. “She’ll not be back till next week.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. She clucked sympathetically. “It must be lonely for you, all on your own.”

“Well, it is a bit,” he admitted. “You get used to having a bit of company.”

“Maybe I ought to hang about awhile and talk to you,” she offered. “After all, it’s not like you’ve got much business this morning, is it?”

“I’ve never heard of Rollo Puffy either,” Barnes admitted. He handed the inspector back the telegram. “But at least we’ve got the victim’s name now. That’s a good place to start.”

“If it’s the right name,” the inspector replied.

“Well, sir, it’s the only one we’ve got,” the constable pointed out. “So we might as well ask about if anyone’s heard of the woman.”

“Of course, Constable. Yet I can’t help wondering if it might have been the killer who sent the message. I mean, who else could have known who the woman was? Why send a telegram? Why not, if one were innocent, simply come along to police and identify her?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Barnes said. He stopped in front of Malcolm Tavistock’s house. “It’s a puzzle. What did the telegraph office say? Could they remember who’d sent it?”

“Vaguely. I went along to there myself early this morning. The night clerk was just going off duty. But he remembered who sent the message. It was a street arab. A young lad came in with the money and the message already written out.”

“Would the clerk be able to identify the boy?” Even as he asked the question, the constable knew the answer. Street arabs were thick as fleas on dogs in London.