Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (19 page)

When it was her turn, Mrs. Jeffries purchased the same. “When’s the next train?” she asked the ticket seller.

“Comin’ in now, ma’am.” He jerked his thumb to his right, indicating she was to go in that direction.

The carriage doors were opening when she came onto the platform, and Mrs. Jeffries saw the lady in black disappear into a car at the far end. Taking a deep breath, she ran for the car, leapt in, and slammed the door behind her just as the whistle blew.

There were three people in the compartment. Two men reading newspapers were sitting next to the windows, and her quarry had taken the spot by the door. Mrs. Jeffries had no choice but to take the seat opposite.

The lady leaned toward her, and for one, brief, horrifying moment, Mrs. Jeffries was sure she’d been caught. But instead of “Why have you been following me?” the woman asked, “Excuse me, madam, but is it possible to get from King’s Cross Station to Victoria? Your English trains are very confusing to me and I have a Channel crossing today.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d not been caught, and even better, the lady was a foreigner, a stranger to London. “Of course it is. When we get to King’s Cross, I’ll show you exactly what you must do. Are you French?”

“Oui, madam,” she replied with a smile. “I came to London to attend a funeral.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said sympathetically. “I’m so very sorry.”

The woman was attractive and appeared to be in her late thirties. Her hair was light brown, her complexion smooth and unlined, and her eyes a light shade of green.

“It was expected.” She shrugged, causing her voluminous black coat to gape open. Beneath it, she wore a gray blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and a black wool skirt. On her head was a high-crowned black felt hat swathed in so much veiling it reached the tip of her gloved fingers. “My uncle was very old. I am Madame Deloffre and I so appreciate your assistance. I’ve been in London for several days now taking care of my uncle’s business, and it’s such a confusing place.”

Mrs. Jeffries’ heart sank as she realized she’d let her enthusiasm overcome her common sense. Agatha Moran had just come back from a trip to the continent, and though it was supposed to have been a holiday for her, no sensible businesswoman would pass up an opportunity to advertise her own establishment. She’d probably passed out brochures and cards everywhere. No doubt Madame Deloffre had found one of those cards and decided it would be a perfect place for a lone female traveler to stay while she was in London. Blast, she’d probably made another mistake, and this one was going to cost her the rest of the morning. Still, she’d do her best to help the woman.

“I’m”—she started to use her real name and then thought better of it—“Mrs. Johnson,” she finished.

“How do you do, madame.” She inclined her head. “One of these days I’d like to come back to your country under better circumstances.”

The train pulled into the next station and one of the two men got out. The other one didn’t look up from his paper.

“A death in the family is always a sad occasion,” Mrs. Jeffries said as the carriage door slammed and the train started off again.

“It wasn’t just that,” Madame Deloffre explained. “I expected my uncle to die; he was ninety-four and had a bad heart. Mais non, what was most upsetting was that I stopped to see my English friend and I found out she’d been murdered.”

From the corner of her eye, Mrs. Jeffries saw the man stick his head out from behind the newspaper. She ignored him. “Murdered. Oh my gracious, that’s terrible.” She felt her spirits rise. Perhaps this wasn’t to be a wasted morning after all.

“She was stabbed to death.” Madame Deloffre’s eyes were as big as saucers. “I couldn’t believe it when her housekeeper told me what happened. Mon Dieu—” She broke off with a shake of her head.

“Were you close friends?” Mrs. Jeffries asked softly.

“Not really, I only met her a time or two in Paris. But I liked her very much. She hired me to do some translating work for her. Well, that’s not quite true. I only translated a few documents and a . . . I can’t think how to say it in English . . . but you know, the words on the stones of the dead.”

It took a moment before Mrs. Jeffries understood. “You mean headstones or tombstones. You translated tombstones for your friend?”

“Oui.” Madame Deloffre shrugged slightly. “That’s how we met. We were both in Le Cimetiere de Grenelle, a . . . what you would call a cemetery, and she heard me speaking English to one of my students. She asked me what some words on a . . . a . . . tombstone meant and I translated them for her. After that, she hired me to translate some official documents.”

By this time, the man by the window had given up all pretense of reading his newspaper. He was openly staring at them, but both women pretended not to notice.

“That’s a very interesting way to make someone’s acquaintance. You’ll forgive my impertinence I hope, but what did the words on the tombstone say?”

Madame Deloffre looked out the window as the train rumbled into King’s Cross Station. “It said the usual words one would expect to see on the stone of the dead. ‘Here lies Delphine Odette Aimee, beloved wife of Sir Madison Lowery. Gone but never forgotten in our hearts.’ ”

 

Betsy stopped and stared at the greengrocer’s and tried to decide if it was worth going inside and having a chat with the clerk. She’d been to every shop along High Street and found out nothing they didn’t already know about the Evans family. But she wanted to learn something before she went back to Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting.

She pulled her cloak tighter against a sudden blast of cold wind and hurried toward the entrance.

The clerk smiled at her as she entered. “Can I help you, miss?”

Betsy returned his smile with one of her own. He was no more than twenty, with brown hair, a thin face, and a scattering of spots along his cheeks. “I’d like a pound of carrots.” She pointed to a bin.

“Very good, miss.” He picked out the carrots and tossed them onto the scales hanging from the center rafter.

“I don’t suppose you know a family named Evans?” she asked. “I’ve a note for Mrs. Evans from my mistress and I’ve lost the address. She’ll get really angry if I don’t deliver it.”

“They live just up the road.” He pointed to his left. “Chepstow Villas. My sister works there. Is there anything else, miss?” He pulled a sheet of old newspaper from the shelf beneath the bins, held it under the scales, and tipped the carrots onto the page without spilling a single one.

“Do you have any apples that aren’t too expensive?” She wanted to keep him talking.

“Sorry, miss, but we don’t.”

“What’s the address on Chepstow Villas?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “Oh wait, I know how you can tell which house it is; it’s the one with the half-built conservatory on the end. My sister showed it to me when I walked her home from her afternoon off last Monday.” He grinned broadly. “We had a bit of a celebration at the pub that afternoon.”

“What were you celebrating?” Betsy asked.

“The daughter of the house, Miss Rosemary Evans, is getting married.” He laughed. “And as it was the last time before the wedding that the servants had their afternoon off together, Miss Rosemary gave the butler coin to buy everyone a bit of cheer.”

“That’s a lovely idea!” Betsy exclaimed.

“My sister says that Miss Rosemary is the decent one in that household. They’re all going to miss her when she moves away to live with her new husband.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “And just between you and me and the lamppost, once the staff is stuck working for just Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I’ve heard they’ll be looking for new positions.”

 

“Mr. Sutton isn’t going to have an easy time of it,” Barnes said as he and the inspector stepped into a hansom cab. He banged on the ceiling and they started forward with a jerk. “There’s nothing worse than when one of the fairer sex goes all quiet like she did. She was so furious with the poor fellow, she didn’t even trust herself to have a good shout at him. My wife has only been that angry at me once, and I shudder when I think about it.”

Witherspoon couldn’t help himself—he had to ask. “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, why was your wife . . .”

“Ready to club me in my sleep.” Barnes chuckled. “It was when we were first married, sir. A gang of thugs roughed me up pretty badly and it scared her. She’d have not been so angry except that I had a chance at another position; her cousin had offered me a foreman’s job in a shoe factory in Barwell. The wages were good, but I didn’t want to move to Leicestershire so I turned the job down. I liked being a policeman.”

“How long did she stay angry at you?” Witherspoon asked. He wondered if Lady Cannonberry would ever want him to give up his position. He didn’t think so; she seemed quite enthusiastic about his cases.

Barnes grinned. “A good two weeks, sir, and I don’t mind admitting, it was the longest two weeks of my life. She barely spoke to me. My missus isn’t just my wife, she’s my dearest companion.”

“You’re a lucky man, Constable. From what I’ve observed of matrimony, there are many couples that can’t stand the sight of each other.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “As for Mrs. North, unless we can find any evidence connecting her to Agatha Moran, she wouldn’t have a reason to want her dead. But we’ll keep looking at the situation and see what turns up.”

“It’s Mrs. North’s word against the maid’s.” Barnes sighed. “But if I was a betting man, I’d put my money on the servant. She’s no reason to lie.”

They discussed the case as the hansom made its way to Islington. By the time the cab pulled up at the curb in front of the house, it was raining hard. They got out, and while Barnes paid the driver, Witherspoon made a run for it.

The constable arrived on the stoop just as Jane Middleton opened up. “Hello, sirs, I was wondering when you’d return.” She stepped back and opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Do come in and dry off a bit.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Middleton, you’re most kind,” Witherspoon replied. “Is Miss Farley in? I’d like to have another word with her.”

“She’s upstairs in her room,” Mrs. Middleton said. “I’ll fetch her after you have a decent cup of tea.”

Witherspoon started to protest and then changed his mind. “Thank you, ma’am, we’d both very much appreciate something hot to drink.”

“Come along then.” She shooed them into the kitchen. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she ordered as she set about making tea.

“If it’s agreeable with you,” Witherspoon said, “we’d like to have a look at Miss Moran’s office before I interview Miss Farley.”

“I thought you might want to go in and have a look ’round. No one’s been in or out since . . .” Her voice broke, but she recovered quickly. “I’ve kept the office locked for just that reason.” She pulled a key out of her apron pocket, put the kettle on the cooker, and came toward them. Handing it to Witherspoon, she said, “Here, you and your constable take as long a look as you like. I’ll bring the tea in there when it’s brewed.”

Twenty minutes later, Witherspoon sighed and put the stack of newspapers to one side. “Honestly, why does anyone save old newspapers! These go back to June.”

“Old papers can be very useful.” Barnes looked up from the stack of invoices he was doggedly working his way through. “I use mine to polish my boots and start the fire.”

The inspector shook his head in disbelief. “Surely they have newspapers on the continent . . .” He stopped as the door opened and the housekeeper stuck her head into the small, cramped office.

“Would you like more tea?” she asked.

“No thank you, I’ve just finished the first one you gave me,” Witherspoon said.

“I’m still working on mine,” Barnes added. “Mrs. Middleton, is there a reason you saved all the newspapers for Miss Moran? Did she ask you to?”

Jane nodded vigorously. “Indeed. She wouldn’t tell me why; she simply asked me to keep them until she returned. There’s a newsagent just up the road. She asked me to buy a
London Daily Tattler
every day. I’ve no idea why she liked the thing. It wasn’t like her at all.” She pointed to the stack in front of the inspector. “There’s nothing of real interest in them, just gossip and silliness.”

“What about these invoices and receipts?” Barnes asked. “Was there anything special about any of them?”

Jane shook her head. “Everything was in order. Miss Moran and I kept in contact by letter. She knew every penny that came into the hotel and every penny that went out. She didn’t even ask me anything about the receipts when she went flying out of here on Monday afternoon. She just said she had urgent business to see about, but she wouldn’t say what it was.”

“Had she been in contact with the Evans family anytime in the past year?” Witherspoon pushed his chair away from the desk.

“I couldn’t say if she’d been in direct contact with them or not, but I know she kept an eye on them,” Jane declared. “Every month or two she went to Bayswater and had a bit of snoop around their neighborhood. I know I should have told you this, but it seemed such an ugly bit of pettiness, and I didn’t want you thinking ill of her. She was a good and decent woman.”

Witherspoon sighed audibly. “I do wish you’d mentioned this before—” he began.

“I know,” she interrupted. “I should have. But I kept hoping you’d find out who killed her without me having to tell you. Miss Moran watching the family she used to work for and snooping around their neighborhood doesn’t make her sound very nice.”

Barnes straightened up from the file cabinet he’d been using as a desktop and dusted off his hands. “How long had she been spying on them?”

“She wasn’t spying.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “She was keeping an eye on them, and she’s been doing it for as long as I’ve worked here.”

“Do you have any idea why she did such a thing?” Barnes asked.