Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (2 page)

“But livin’ in a flat is so expensive,” she protested. She’d been in service since she was twelve and couldn’t imagine living in a house one had to pay for oneself. The very idea filled her with dread.

“I’ve saved my wages for years. We’ll manage just fine.” He looked away as he spoke, unwilling to meet her eyes. Truth was, he was richer than most aristocrats and he’d been hiding it from some of the people he loved for far too long.

Smythe’s connection to this house started long ago, when he’d been hired as a young coachman by Inspector Witherspoon’s aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. Then he’d had a chance to go to Australia to seek his fortune. He’d gotten lucky and actually made a huge amount of money, all of which he’d invested wisely. When he’d returned to England, he’d stopped to pay his respects to his old employer and found her dying.

It was then that he’d met Wiggins. Of all Euphemia’s servants, the young lad had been the only one trying to take care of the poor woman. Smythe had taken charge; he’d sacked all the other servants, sent Wiggins to find a good doctor, and hired a domestic agency to bring in cleaners to disinfect the house.

But despite his efforts and the best medicine money could buy, Euphemia Witherspoon continued to deteriorate.

Yet as she lay dying, she set into motion the circumstances that led to Smythe’s current dilemma. She’d made him promise he’d stay on and see that her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, was settled in properly, and more importantly, wasn’t taken advantage of the way she had been.

As fate would have it, by the time he’d fulfilled his promise, it was too late. He’d gotten involved with all of them and he didn’t want to go. From the first evening Mrs. Jeffries had presided over the servants’ supper table, he’d been impressed with her good humor, insight, and intelligence. When Mrs. Goodge had first come along, she’d been a bit of a snob, but she’d cooked the most mouthwatering meals he’d ever had. And then there had been Betsy. She’d been a mere slip of a lass but he’d fallen half in love with her on sight.

Then they started solving murders, and he’d realized that Betsy, despite the difference in their ages, had feelings for him as well.

But his biggest mistake had been in not telling all of them how much money he had right from the beginning. He’d let them think he was simply a coachman. Eventually, as he and Betsy had gotten closer and fallen in love, he told her the truth. He’d not start their life together by keeping secrets from her. That wasn’t right. Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out as well. But Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins had no idea he was wealthy. And he hated the idea they’d think he’d deliberately kept it from them, when it hadn’t really been that way at all. Now he couldn’t very well tell the cook that not only was he not in the least concerned about paying the rent on his new flat, but that he’d bought the entire building. But despite all the changes coming their way, he was determined that he and Betsy would still help with the inspector’s cases.

Mrs. Goodge leaned toward him, her expression earnest. “But it will be lonely here without you and Betsy.”

Smythe reached over and patted her hand. “We’ll be here every day. It’s not goin’ to be that different except that in the evenin’, instead of goin’ upstairs, we’ll go around the corner to our flat.”

Mrs. Goodge stared at him for a moment and then sat back in her chair. “Don’t mind me; I’m just behavin’ like a silly old woman who’s scared everythin’ is goin’ to be different once you two leave.”

“You’re not silly,” Smythe said quickly. “You’re not old and nothin’s goin’ to change.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “All of us, including Betsy and Smythe, will still do our parts in our investigations.”

“And we’ll all still be together,” he added.

Mrs. Goodge smiled but said nothing. Yes, they all did their parts, and her contribution wasn’t going to be altered by a wedding. Her sources, as she called them, would still troop through the kitchen on a regular basis. With every case they had, she had an army of delivery lads, chimney sweeps, fruit vendors, laundry boys, and tinkers sitting at this very table. She plied them with tea and treats and learned all sorts of useful information. All she had to do was mention the names of their victim and suspects; if there was gossip to be had, she’d get it all.

That didn’t always work, but one of the few advantages of getting old and having had to work for your living was that you had many other places to go for help. She’d scul leried and cooked in some of the finest houses in the kingdom and now had a vast number of former associates she could call upon for information.

She did her part, and she intended to keep on doing it until they laid her in the ground. Helping the cause of justice had given her long and sometimes bitter life a genuine sense of meaning. She’d wasted far too many years doing what society had told her was right and proper: never stepping out of her place and making sure that no scullery maid or kitchen gardener dared step out of theirs, either. But in these last years of her life, she was profoundly grateful she’d been given a chance to atone for being such a foolish old snob. Oh, she wasn’t frightened about her place in their investigations changing; she was scared that despite all their best efforts, the family they’d made would drift apart.

They heard the back door, and this time, Fred leapt up and raced toward the hallway.

They heard Betsy say, “Close your brolly, Wiggins. We’re in the house now and an open one is bad luck.”

“Ruddy thing is stuck,” Wiggins muttered. “There, got it. Cor blimey, it’s late. Do you think they’ve started without us? Hello old boy, glad to see me, are you?”

Wiggins and the dog came into the kitchen first. The animal was butting his head against the footman’s knees, demanding a bit of attention. He reached down and stroked the dog’s back with one hand while taking off his gray flat cap with the other. He was a good- looking young lad in his early twenties. Brown hair fell forward on his face; his cheeks were round and pink from the cold, and he was grinning broadly. “Hello. Sorry to be late, but it’s awful out there. One minute it’s pourin’ it down and the next it stops. Lucky for Betsy we met up at the omnibus stop. She forgot her umbrella. Is that seed cake? Cor blimey, we’ve not ’ad seed cake in ages.”

“Hello, everyone.” Betsy came in at a more sedate pace and went toward the coat tree. She took off her outer garments and hung them on the peg next to Smythe’s overcoat. She was a slender blonde in her midtwenties with blue eyes, porcelain skin, and lovely features. “It’s so cold out there. I meant to be home much sooner but the dressmaker took ages to do the fitting.” She slipped into the chair next to Smythe. Under the table, he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.

Mrs. Jeffries, who’d already poured two cups of hot tea, handed one to the footman and one to the maid. “I’m glad you’re both back safely. It is getting very cold out there. Is it still raining?”

“It let up just as I was leaving the dressmaker’s.” Betsy reached for her cup with her free hand.

“Are you all fitted out, then?” Smythe asked. “All ready for the big day? It’s less than a fortnight now.”

Betsy gave him a reassuring smile. His words had sounded light and casual, but his tone couldn’t disguise the flash of anxiety that had flitted across his face. She didn’t blame him for being concerned. They’d been trying to get married for well over a year now.

Their original date had been last June. But a few days before their wedding, Smythe had been called away to Australia on a life or death errand to help an old friend. She’d been very put out by his leaving and vowed never to speak to him again. But that was impossible—she loved him. So when he finally returned, they worked out their differences. They set their second wedding date for this past October.

Then Smythe had been shot on the inspector’s last case and she’d realized how fast life could change. If that bullet had been a bit higher, he’d be dead and not just carrying around a scar. Betsy wanted them to marry immediately. So he had to tell her about his big surprise, his wedding gift to her. He’d tracked down her long-lost sister in Canada and she and her husband were coming to the wedding. There was nothing for it but to wait until October. But nothing seemed to go right. Instead of getting married when they’d planned, their second wedding date got pushed back.

Norah and Leo, her sister and brother- in-law, had been delayed by Norah’s sprained ankle, and then the ship sailing was delayed by the worst Atlantic storms in fifty years. The earliest her family could get here was mid-December.

Betsy was disappointed, but she decided to make the best of it. They’d have a Christmas wedding, and no matter what happened, on December eighteenth, Inspector Witherspoon would walk her down the aisle of St. Matthew’s Church. As her dear friend Luty would say, come hell or high water, she and Smythe were going to get married in eight days.

“Of course I’m all ready.” Betsy grinned. “Let’s just hope we don’t get us a murder right now.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “It’s been a long time since our last one, and as you’ve got family coming all the way from Halifax, we need to have plenty of free time.”

“Indeed we do,” the cook agreed. “You might be all ready, but the rest of us have plenty to do before we’re ready for the big day. Then we’re right into Christmas.”

“But a case would be nice,” Wiggins put in eagerly. He shoveled the last bite of his seed cake onto his fork. “Just polishin’ brass and doin’ the ’ousehold chores is right borin’. Even with this weather, I’d not mind bein’ out and about. It’s been ages since I’ve been ‘on the hunt’ so to speak.”

Wiggins hadn’t told the others about his newest plan; he was saving his wages to open his own private inquiry agency and frankly, he was eager to get out on the hunt again. It would be a few years before he had enough money to seriously pursue his dream, but he’d decided that now that Betsy and Smythe were getting married, he ought to think a bit about his own future. He wasn’t a conceited person, but he knew that everything he’d learned while helping with Inspector Witherspoon’s cases had given him just the right experience he needed to run a successful private inquiry agency. He was good at finding out information. He’d honed his skills on tweenies and housemaids, but he was sure his ready smile, cheerful disposition, and the occasional bit of slyness would work equally well on anyone else.

He glanced at Smythe, hoping his comment hadn’t caused offense. He knew how much Smythe wanted to get that ring on Betsy’s finger. But the coachman grinned good naturedly.

“We’ve got enough on our plates right now.” Smythe laughed. “If we had an investigation, I don’t know what we’d do with our visitors from Canada. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“We’d manage just fine.” Betsy put down her cup. “Norah and Leo are staying at a hotel. I mean, I’m not saying I want us to have a case, but if it happened, we’d figure out a way to handle everything properly, and, well, it has been a long time since we’ve had a good investigation to sink our teeth into.” She was delighted to finally be getting married, and she was even more excited about seeing her sister, but she’d never turn her back on helping the inspector.

Gerald Witherspoon had taken her in when she’d collapsed onto his doorstep. Even though she was completely untrained, he’d offered her a position as a housemaid so she’d have a roof over her head. She’d do anything for him. Of course, if she were truly honest, she’d admit that she loved the hunt as much as Wiggins. She was proud of the skills she’d developed. She’d trot along to a suspect’s or a victim’s neighborhood, step into a greengrocer’s or a butcher’s shop, flash a wide smile at the clerk, and start dropping names. Before you could blink your eyes, they’d be talking a blue streak.

She was also good at following people, a skill she didn’t mention too often in front of Smythe. He tended to be a bit overprotective, and she was certain he wouldn’t approve of some of her activities.

“Of course we’d be up to the task,” Mrs. Jeffries demurred. “But nonetheless, it would make life a bit more difficult.” As much as she hated to admit it, Betsy was right. It had been far too long since they’d had a nice, interesting investigation. Solving crimes was certainly a lot more appealing than domestic work. She was also rather proud of what they’d accomplished. Because of their efforts, numerous murderers had been brought to justice, and more importantly, a good many innocent people had been saved from the gallows.

After the death of her late husband, a policeman in York, she’d come to London looking for a change of scenery. She’d had his pension and a bit of money of her own. But within days she’d been bored to tears.

Shopping made her feet hurt, the theater was interesting but one couldn’t sit through a play every evening, and even the day trips to the south coast had convinced her that travel often left one with a headache and a nasty case of indigestion. Luckily, she’d seen an advertisement for a position as a housekeeper to a policeman. That had piqued her interest.

She’d come along here to Upper Edmonton Gardens, chatted with the inspector, and been offered the position. It hadn’t been too long before they were actively helping solve the inspector’s cases. Each of them made their own special contribution. She was the one who generally put it all together. Nature had gifted her with the capability of taking seemingly unrelated facts, ideas, or gossip and coming up with the right solution. She wasn’t overly proud of her special skill; after all, all of them were equally skilled in different ways. That was one of the reasons they worked so very well together.

“I don’t think we’ll be gettin’ us a case today,” Wiggins declared. “It’s too wet and cold out there even for a killer.”

 

“We’ve not moved the body, sir,” the constable said proudly. “And even though the rain has stopped, I’ve had the lads standing over it with their brollies to make sure no more evidence gets washed away by the mist.”