Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (17 page)

“I’m from Holland Park,” Wiggins replied. “The housekeeper sent me down ’ere to deliver a note.” The boy seemed chatty enough, but he knew the dangers of asking too much too fast. “My name is John. Do you like it at your household?”

“It’s alright, I guess.” Mickey straightened and they started walking again.

“ ’ Ow long ’ave you worked there?”

Inkie stopped and sniffed at the leaves of a shrub. Mickey tugged gently on the lead, but the spaniel only shoved his nose further into the branches. “A year, but I’ll not be there much longer. My brother’s gone to Rhodesia, and once he’s settled, I’m to join him. I’m saving my wages.”

“You’re goin’ all the way to Africa? That sounds excitin’!” Wiggins exclaimed. He’d always wanted to travel to that part of the world himself.

Inkie pulled his head out of the bush and they started off again. “We’ve had the police around,” Mickey added eagerly. “A lady got stabbed right in front of the house, and I got to speak to this cranky old copper who asked me all sorts of questions.”

“Cor blimey, was the lady someone from your house?”

“Nah, none of us knew her. But I overheard the butler telling the cook that the dead woman used to work for the master and mistress. But I didn’t get to hear anything else. But the police talked to me—the old peeler asked me all sorts of questions.”

Wiggins didn’t think Constable Barnes would mind being referred to as a “peeler.” Policemen were often called far worse than that. “What did he ask you?”

“He wanted to know if I’d seen the comings and goings of the guests or the family when the lady was killed. I told him what I knew, but I don’t think it was all that helpful.” They’d reached the corner. Mickey pulled the lead gently as he turned to go back the way they’d come. Inkie spotted another bush and made a rush for it, dragging Mickey with him. “You silly old thing.” The boy laughed but gave the dog his lead.

Wiggins hurried after them. “Maybe you helped more than you thought. You never know what little fact or detail will help the police catch the killer.”

“I don’t see how.” Mickey shrugged. “After I checked that the builders had covered the mistress’ new table properly with the oilcloths, I spent the rest of the evening keeping the fire burning in the cooker,” he explained. “I didn’t even leave the kitchen until all the guests had gone out the back door and the police came. In a way I’m glad it happened.”

Wiggins looked at him sharply. He didn’t seem like a bloodthirsty sort. “Glad what happened?”

“Oh, I’m not happy the poor lady was stabbed, but I’m awfully happy the police was tramping through the house that night.” He grinned. “One of them must have pulled the oilcloth off Mrs. Evans’ new table, and the next morning, all that fancy carved wood was soaked. She was furious and she blamed the builders. She was screaming at the foreman that he’d not done his job properly, and he yelled right back at her. He told her they’d covered everything, including her ruddy table, and what’s more, them cloths cost good money, and if they all weren’t accounted for, he’d add it to her bill. You could hear them shouting at each other all the way down in the kitchen.”

 

He was well into middle age, but when Reginald Manley walked into a room, he was still handsome enough to turn the ladies’ heads. A touch of gray brushed his temples, but his black hair was thick and lustrous. He had excellent bone structure, with high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a wide, generous mouth. “Would you care for tea or would you prefer something stronger?” he asked his guest. “Oh sorry, I forgot, you never touch alcohol, do you.”

Hatchet laughed easily. “Not usually. But sometimes, if there’s a special occasion, I’ll raise my glass in a toast.” He’d given up alcohol years ago, after it had stolen his self-respect and left him for dead in a back alley in Baltimore. But Hatchet wasn’t one to waste precious time thinking about his past when he was on the hunt. He’d come to the elegant Mayfair home of one of his old friends looking for information. “I’d prefer tea if you don’t mind.”

“Please bring a pot of tea and a bottle of Laphroaig,” Manley instructed the maid that had shown Hatchet into the conservatory. “And ask my wife to join us.”

As soon as the girl disappeared, he waved Hatchet toward a wicker table and chairs. “I’m under strict instructions to send for Myra the moment you appear.” Reginald grinned broadly as he sat down.

Hatchet slipped into the seat opposite his host and surveyed his surroundings. They were in a conservatory, the greater part of which was filled with rows of cutting beds laid out on long trestle tables, big tubs of flowers, shrubs and exotic trees in colorful pots. The remainder of the space was given over to a small studio for Reginald’s paintings. A canvas on an easel stood a few feet away from where he sat, and next to that was a table with two blue crockery containers holding an assortment of brushes and half a dozen jars of paint.

Reginald Manley was an artist. But he wasn’t quite as talented as one needed to be to actually make a living selling his work, so he’d spent most of his adult life using his considerable charm to insure he was in the good graces of a well-heeled female. Manley had learned early that having a special lady friend to help defray one’s expenses made life so much easier. But he’d always treated the ladies well, been faithful, and in every case, the liaison had ended with both parties remaining friends. Since taking his marriage vows, he’d devoted himself to his wife’s happiness. Hatchet had seen the Manleys together on a number of occasions and was now convinced that whatever the circumstances that might have brought them together, there was now genuine love between the two of them.

Hatchet looked amused. “Lovely. I like your wife. She’s a very intelligent woman.”

“Yes, but we both know this isn’t just a social call. You want information.”

Hatchet feigned hurt. “You cut me to the quick. I genuinely want to see you. You’re an old friend.”

“As are you.” Reginald grinned broadly. “And I’m delighted to share a bit of useful gossip with you now and again. Now tell me, are you here about that poor woman that got stabbed in Notting Hill?”

“Don’t you dare start speaking until I get over there and sit down,” Myra Haddington Manley said from the doorway. “I don’t want to miss a word of this.” Her long russet-colored skirt swished as she hurried toward them.

Both men started to rise, but she waved them back to their seats. She was definitely middle-aged, her front teeth protruded slightly, and there were more than a few streaks of gray in her brown hair. But her complexion was flawless and there was a lively intelligence in her deep-set hazel eyes. As always, she was beautifully dressed. The bodice of her gown was an intricate fleur-de lis pattern of black lace and russet over a fitted high-necked white blouse. Onyx earrings dangled from her earlobes and a black cashmere shawl was draped over her shoulders.

“How delightful to see you again, Hatchet,” she said as she took the empty wicker chair next to her husband.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied.

“And I wasn’t going to ask him anything until you got here, sweetest,” Reginald protested. “I sent Hilda to fetch you.”

“Of course you did, darling.” She patted his hand. “And I got here as quickly as I could. Now you haven’t told him, have you?”

“Told me what?” Hatchet looked at Myra. “He’s not told me anything.”

Myra glanced at Reginald and raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t mention Eleanor North?”

“Of course not, I was waiting for you—” He broke off as the maid came back. She was carrying a silver tray, which she put down on the table. She started to reach for the teapot handle.

Myra raised her hand. “I’ll pour, Hilda,” she offered.

“Yes ma’am.” Hilda bobbed a curtsy and then hurried off.

Myra smiled at Hatchet as she picked up the pot. “Do you take sugar and cream?”

“Both.” He nodded his thanks as she handed him a delicate pink and white cup. He waited till they’d picked up their glasses of whisky before he spoke. “Now, what was it about Eleanor North that you wanted to tell me?”

“You know that she lives right next door to the Evans family?” Myra began.

He nodded. “I do.”

“But what you might not know is that she came in late to that tea party and that the hem of her skirt was soaked,” Myra announced proudly.

Hatchet kept his smile with difficulty. He didn’t want them to see how disappointed he was. It had been raining—half of London’s hems were wet that afternoon. “That’s quite extraordinary.”

Myra watched him for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. “How very polite you are. Of course you don’t know the rest of it, do you?”

“Stop teasing the poor man, Myra,” Reginald admonished. “He doesn’t know what we know. No one does.”

“Oh don’t be so stuffy. I’ve got to meet with that Ladies Horticultural Society in two hours so I deserve a bit of fun,” she said. “Let me start at the beginning. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Parker, is from the Isle of Wight. Her family owned a small lodging house in Ryde. Apparently, she heard Reginald and I discussing the Moran murder, and during that discussion, we mentioned the Evans family and how sad it was that their governess had been stabbed right in front of their house.” She paused and took a quick sip of her whisky. “The next morning, when we were going over the weekly expenses, Mrs. Parker happened to mention that Eleanor North’s fiancé, Tobias Sutton, lived in the house next door to where Agatha Moran had a position as a governess when she was employed by a family in Ryde.”

Hatchet wanted to make sure he understood. “Let me get this straight; your housekeeper claims that the Evanses’ neighbor Mrs. North has a fiancé that knew the victim?”

“That’s right.” Myra nodded affirmatively. “Mr. Sutton lived in the lodging house her family owned. He’s a barrister, and he was well acquainted with Agatha Moran. Mrs. Parker said she remembers seeing the two of them walking along the seaside together.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Over twenty years,” Myra answered. “But Mrs. Parker remembers it clearly because Agatha Moran was a governess to a family named Hinshaw. They were very proper people, and back in those days, if you were a governess, you most certainly didn’t stroll along the seaside with a young man.”

“I wonder why Sutton didn’t come forward with this information. Agatha Moran was identified in all the newspapers. Surely, he must have realized the police would be interested in his connection to the dead woman,” Hatchet murmured.

“Don’t be absurd.” Reginald laughed. “If Eleanor North found out he had any connection with a murdered woman, she’d break off their engagement.”

Hatchet drew back in surprise. “For goodness’ sake, why? Sutton can hardly be faulted because someone he once had a connection with was mur—”

“That wouldn’t make any difference,” Myra interrupted. “Eleanor North is obsessed with propriety, and frankly, even though I think it’s a peculiar way to live one’s life, I can understand to some extent. Her first husband was involved in one scandal after another. She was constantly humiliated by the man.”

“Douglas North was an overbearing bully,” Reginald added.

“And mean-spirited as well as having a terrible temper,” she said. “I once heard one of her friends say that the happi est day of her life was when he got run over by a cooper’s van.”

“Her husband was killed in an accident?” Hatchet put his teacup down.

“Don’t get so excited.” Myra gave him a knowing smile. “It wasn’t murder. There were dozens of witnesses. Douglas North was very drunk when he was killed. He wandered out into traffic on Oxford Street and got run over.”

“Was the driver charged?” Hatchet asked.

“There was an inquest and the magistrate ruled it an accidental death,” Reginald said.

“When Eleanor became engaged to Tobias Sutton,” Myra said, “the gossip was that she picked him because he was sweet, amiable, and so boring he’d never cause a scandal. She’d not take kindly to anyone finding out that Sutton had once known Agatha Moran.”

Hatchet thought for a moment and then reached for his tea. “I suppose coincidences do happen in life,” he remarked. “But I find it very strange. What are the odds that he would end up engaged to a woman who lived next door to a family that had once employed his, er, friend?”

“You’re being very polite,” Myra chided. “Mrs. Parker hinted that there was more between Sutton and Miss Moran than friendship. I suspect that Sutton found out about the connection, and as Mrs. North is very good friends with the Evans family, he was terrified Agatha Moran’s name might come up. He didn’t want his fiancée finding out he’d once had a relationship with another woman.”

“Now, now, Myra, an old romance is hardly a motive for murder,” Reginald protested. “Not in this day and age.”

“How did Mrs. North meet Sutton?” Hatchet asked. “Do either of you happen to know?”

“I do,” Myra said brightly. “Eleanor tells everyone who stands still for thirty seconds how she met him. Late one afternoon, Eleanor was coming home from shopping, and just as she stepped out of the hansom, Tobias Sutton tripped over a crack in the pavement and went sprawling at her feet. She could tell right away that he was a gentleman, so she took him inside to make sure he wasn’t seriously injured.” She sighed. “Actually, it is a rather romantic story.”

“Humph,” Reginald snorted in derision. “I don’t believe a word of it. She probably met him at a boring old dinner party.”

 

Smythe stepped into the Dirty Duck pub and stopped just inside the doorway. He’d not meant to come here today, but he’d had the worst luck. He’d wasted half the day chasing all over Islington trying to find Eddie Butcher. But it was as if the fellow had disappeared off the face of the ruddy earth. The other tenants at the doss- house on Stone Lane claimed that Eddie hadn’t been back in two days.

“And he’s paid in advance for the bed,” one of them had told Smythe. “He’d got his wages from the Morrisons and he was afraid he’d spend it at the pub if he didn’t pay up.” The old man had shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not like Eddie to give up a warm bed. Not when he’s paid for it.”