Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (25 page)

“And you’re absolutely sure about the time,” Witherspoon clarified. “You’re positive it was after five when you left?”

Spencer nodded. “Very sure, Inspector. I looked at my watch as I left the building. If you don’t believe me, you can get confirmation from the porter—he hailed the cab.”

 

Ruth stopped and surveyed the shop. The peek she’d had through the window didn’t do Corbiers justice. Shelves of fabric in every color and hue filled one wall. An elegant Regency desk and two matching chairs occupied one corner. Next to the desk was a table draped with a white satin skirt on top of which was a small evergreen tree in a blue ceramic pot. Red velvet bows and white and gold ceramic ornaments in the shapes of stars and bells were tied to its branches, and streamers of brightly colored braided ribbons were draped in loops around it.

A familiar voice boomed across the shop, snapping Ruth out of her examination of the Christmas tree. “Why Lady Cannonberry, I had no idea you were one of Madame Corbier’s customers.”

Ruth’s gaze shifted to the other side of the shop. A short, blonde-h aired woman wearing a gray and green striped dress stood in the open doorway. Behind her, Ruth could see a large worktable surrounded by seamstresses cutting and sewing.

“Hello, Mrs. Corry. It’s lovely to see you again.” She smiled politely. Blast, Edwina Corry was a dreadful hide-bound old snob who actively tried to dissuade women from joining the women’s suffrage groups.

Edwina Corry stepped out into the shop, carefully fitting an elaborate hat with trailing gray and green veiling onto her head. “How long have you been coming to Corbiers? Frankly, considering your political and social attitudes, I should have thought this would be the last place I’d run into you.”

Ruth forced another polite smile to her lips. “I’ve heard that this establishment does excellent work and . . .” She trailed off as a dark-h aired woman emerged from the workroom.

“Why thank you, Lady Cannonberry. I’m Catherine Corbier. Welcome to my humble shop,” she said in a voice with a lovely French accent. She continued across the room to a coat tree hidden behind the evergreen. She took a gray cloak off the peg. “Would you like me to send our footman out to hail you a cab?” she asked Edwina Corry as she draped it around the woman’s shoulders.

“That’s not necessary.” She gave the Frenchwoman a brief smile. “I’ve more shopping to do. I trust my dress will be ready by Friday?”

“But of course,” Madame Corbier replied as she escorted her to the door. “It will be delivered by noon.”

Edwina Corry gave Ruth a curt nod and stepped outside. Madame Corbier closed the door behind her and then turned to give Ruth a dazzling smile. “And now, madam, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see some dress patterns, please.” She started over to the Regency desk. “My best traveling outfit is completely worn out and I need a new one.”

“Very good, madam.” She gestured toward the chair in front of the desk. “Please take a seat and I’ll get the pattern book.” She turned toward the shelves of fabric and opened a drawer located near the floor. Pulling out a large book, she came back to the desk, put it down, and flipped open the pages. “This model is very popular.” She pointed to a drawing of a beautifully cut suit in mulberry red. “May I ask who recommended my establishment?”

Ruth thought about lying but decided against it. Telling the truth was simply much easier. “I happened to see someone in one of your creations and it was exquisite. I know I’ve a reputation for not being overly concerned with fashion, but Mrs. Evans’ outfit was so lovely I asked some of my friends and found out that she’d had it made here.”

“That is most flattering.” Madame Corbier inclined her head graciously. “What dress was it that you noticed? The blue serge with the gray overskirt?”

Ruth started to nod affirmatively but thought better of it. “No, the dress I’m referring to is a green day dress with a peacock blue striped bodice.”

“Oh that one.” Madame Corbier smiled broadly. “I made that last season; I’m surprised Mrs. Evans still wears it. She’s very fashion conscious.”

Ruth was glad she’d stopped and had a word with one of her more fashionable friends before she’d come here today. Getting a description of one of Arabella Evans’ outfits had been very easy. “I don’t know Mrs. Evans personally, but every time I’ve seen her she’s beautifully dressed. She must spend a good number of hours in your shop, but from the results, it’s certainly worth it for her.”

“I haven’t seen her in ages.” Madame Corbier turned the page. “This outfit is popular as well. As you can see, it’s the very latest fashion from Paris. See how the cloak collar stands up? That means you can wrap a wool cravat under it without damaging the lines of the suit.”

Ruth looked at the picture. It was a lovely traveling suit and she really did need a new one. “I like it very much, but I’m not overly fond of the color. Orange red doesn’t compliment my skin.”

“We’ve this fabric in both a brown and a blue herringbone tweed and also in pale lavender and blue stripe.” She drew back and studied Ruth thoughtfully. “If I may be so bold, Lady Cannonberry, with your lovely skin, I’d recommend the blue herringbone.”

“I agree,” Ruth declared. “I don’t suppose you’ve time to do a fitting now? I know I didn’t make an appointment . . .”

“I can do a fitting now.” Leaving the pattern book on the desk, she rose to her feet and headed for the workroom. “If you’ll step in here, I’ll take your measurements.”

“That’s very kind of you, madame,” she said as she trailed after her. She’d already found out what she needed to know. Madame Corbier had said she hadn’t seen Mrs. Evans in ages, so she wouldn’t have been arguing with her a few days ago. But there might be more information to be had, and if it took buying what would probably be a ridiculously expensive outfit, so be it. It was a small price to pay for helping to catch a killer.

Hatchet got in the back of the badly dressed, destitute men and women lined up outside the rectory door of St. Mat thew’s Church. He was here to see his old friend, Emery Richards, who was one of the good souls helping to serve the hungry people who had no place else to go for a hot meal.

“What are you doin’ here?” The man in front of him turned and gave him a good glare. “You’re a toff.”

Hatchet raised an eyebrow. He knew his shiny black top hat, exquisitely tailored greatcoat, and polished shoes set him apart from everyone else here, but nonetheless, even well-dressed men could be unemployed and hungry. “I’m not here for food; I’m here to see someone.”

“That’s alright then.” The man sniffed and wiped his nose on the grimy sleeve of his threadbare brown coat. “Sometimes they run out of food.”

The door to the rectory kitchen opened and the line began to move. Hatchet stepped aside every time someone walked up behind him, letting them go ahead of him. By the time he crossed the threshold and made his way to where Emery was ladling out a gray-looking stew concoction, everyone had been served.

Emery looked up and saw him. He was a small, slender man about the same age as Hatchet. He had a head of iron gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, straight nose. “Hello, old friend, give me a few minutes to help with the clearing up.”

“I can lend a hand as well,” Hatchet offered as he slipped out of his coat.

Emery picked up the empty serving bowl. “Good, we can use one. We’re short today.”

Hatchet tossed his coat on the back of a chair, put his hat on the seat, and got to work carrying empty serving platters, bread baskets, and water jugs into the small kitchen. An hour later, after the dishes were all washed, the table-cloths shook and tucked into drawers, and every crumb swept up, he and Emery stepped out into the street.

“Alright, Hatchet.” Emery slapped his cap onto his head and slipped on his gloves. “What is it you need to know?”

Hatchet didn’t bother to come up with a story. He and Emery were old friends, and like Hatchet, Emery had ended up in domestic service. He was retired now and living a quiet life, but he’d spent a number of years as a butler to the rich and powerful. He still had numerous sources of information, and that’s why Hatchet often came to visit him.

“Have you ever heard of Sir Madison Lowery or a family named Evans?” Hatchet adjusted his stride to match Emery’s shorter one.

“Ah, so Inspector Witherspoon got that case.” Emery chuckled. “This is your lucky day, my good man. I’m several steps ahead of you.”

“Really?” Hatchet grinned in delight. Sometimes it was like the old days, when he and Emery had been out in the world together. They’d traveled from one place to the next: to Europe, South America, and Australia, splitting up only when Hatchet went off to the United States and Emery went to Hong Kong. But despite their foolishness, they’d both survived. “You always were good at thinking ahead.”

“Thank you.” Emery grinned broadly. “When I read about the Moran murder and noted where the poor woman was killed, I was pretty sure your inspector would catch the case and you’d soon be showing up on my doorstep.”

“Not fair, I tracked you down at St. Matthew’s . . .”

“Stop splitting hairs; you know what I mean.” Emery tipped his cap to a passing matron. “Good day, Mrs. Dorian. Lovely to see you looking so well.”

“Good day, Mr. Richards.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

“That’s Mrs. Dorian. She’s the head of the Ladies League at St. Matthew’s,” Emery said. “Incredible woman—the vicar’s terrified of her. Apparently she read the Gospel and took the adage to feed the poor literally. She’s the one who led the drive to feed the destitute twice a week. Believe me, if it had been up to the vicar, the poor and the hungry would still be hungry. But I digress. Let’s get back to your case. I put out a few discreet inquiries about its principals. At least the ones that I could identify.”

“What did you find out?” Hatchet asked. They stopped as they reached the corner and waited till there was a break in the traffic before venturing across.

“Not very much,” Emery admitted. “I’m sure you’ve already heard the gossip surrounding Sir Madison Lowery. He’s a bad gambler, hasn’t worked a day in his life, and lives on the money he inherited from his first wife, and from what I hear, that well is almost dry. Lucky for him, he’s made a match with the Evans girl. That family has more money than the Bank of England.”

“Are you sure? They live well, but their home isn’t particularly ostentatious.”

“Of course I’m sure. Much to the chagrin and annoyance of his wife, Jeremy Evans has made it a point to deliberately downplay the family’s wealth. Considering how much money he’s accumulated over the years, he lives quite modestly. She’s a social climber if there ever was one, not that I fault her for that; social climbing of one form or another has been the national sport since the Conqueror crossed the Channel. But Jeremy Evans isn’t interested and I rather admire him for that.”

“Perhaps he knows his wife is doing the climbing for him,” Hatchet suggested.

“No, he lets her do what she wants because of their daughter. The marriage hasn’t been a particularly happy one. At one point, the gossip was that he was going to divorce her but she convinced him to think about it and sent him off on a business trip to South America. Six months later, when he got back, his good lady had just given birth to Rosemary, so for the sake of the child, he abandoned the plans for divorce.”

“Divorce? Are you certain? That would ruin them socially. No one would have anything to do with either of them.” Hatchet stopped in his tracks. This was one piece of gossip no one had reported.

“Divorce might be social suicide”—Emery looked amused—“but there are some who prefer that to being shackled to someone they loathe.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I’ve got excellent sources.” Emery started walking again. “As a matter of fact, that good lady we just passed is one of them, and she ought to know all about the Evans family. Her sister used to work for them when they lived in Portsmouth.”

 

Hatchet was the last to arrive at their afternoon meeting. “I’m so sorry to be late,” he apologized, “but as I was getting information that might be helpful to our case, I do hope I’m forgiven.”

“Show-off,” Luty muttered under her breath.

“Of course you’re forgiven,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Besides, you’re only a few minutes late.” She wasn’t in the best of moods herself. “And as you’re here, why don’t you go first.”

Hatchet beamed. “Thank you. I met up with an old friend today, and luckily, he knew quite a bit about the people involved in our case.” Without mentioning any names, he told them everything he’d learned from Emery Richards. “And apparently, at that point in their lives, the relationship between Arabella and Jeremy Evans was so bad, she was the one who insisted he go to Argentina.”

Mrs. Goodge, her expression incredulous, said, “He was actually goin’ to divorce her?”