Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (6 page)

The door opened and he turned to see Stevens enter. He was carrying a silver tray. “Miss Evans thought you might like a cup of tea, sir.”

“That would be lovely,” he replied eagerly. “That was very thoughtful of Miss Evans.”

“She also sent tea in to your constable, sir.” Stevens set the tray down on the side table, picked up the pot, and poured the tea into a delicate china cup decorated with a pattern of pink tea roses. “Sugar or cream, sir?”

“Two sugars and a little cream,” he replied. His spirits brightened as he saw there was also a plate of ginger biscuits on the tray. Good—it was hours past his dinnertime and he was hungry enough to eat a horse.

“Here you are, sir.” Stevens handed him his tea. “Do help yourself to some biscuits as well,” he offered as he left.

Witherspoon took a quick sip of his tea and sighed in pleasure. He reached for a biscuit, crammed it into his mouth, and chewed hungrily, swallowing just as the door opened and Sir Madison Lowery stepped inside the room.

“Do try and make this quick, Inspector.” Lowery frowned irritably as he sat down across from Witherspoon. “It is getting late and I’d like to get home. I’ve a very full day tomorrow.”

“What time did you arrive here this afternoon?” Witherspoon took another sip. Delicate cups were beautiful, but they certainly didn’t hold very much tea.

“I don’t recall the exact time.” Lowery crossed his arms over his chest.

“But surely you’ve some idea of when you got here?” The inspector glanced longingly at the plate of biscuits. “Was it dark outside or was it still light?”

“It was already dark”—he lifted his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn—“the tea started at a quarter to five. I arrived here shortly afterwards.”

“Did you see anyone out front when you came inside?” Witherspoon asked.

Lowery hesitated. “Actually, I didn’t come in the front way.”

The inspector stared at him. “How did you get into the house?”

“I came in through the garden.”

The inspector wondered if anyone at this ruddy tea party had come in the front door. “Is it your habit to come in through the garden?”

Lowery raised an eyebrow. “Of course not, Inspector. But I was late, you see, and I didn’t want my fiancée realizing how late I actually was, so I crept in the back way. I came through the kitchen.”

“Did any of the kitchen staff see you come in?” he asked.

“Why? Do I need to account for my whereabouts?”

“In a murder investigation, everyone needs to account for their time,” Witherspoon replied.

Sir Madison gave him a tight smile. “One of the maids saw me come inside, and I daresay several of the guests spotted me coming in as well. I didn’t want Rosemary to be cross with me. Surely you understand, Inspector. You know how women can be about social engagements.”

Witherspoon wasn’t in the least sure he understood anything about women or social engagements. His relationship with his wonderful neighbor, Lady Cannonberry, was such that if she asked him to be at her home at a specific time, he would do so if it were at all in his power.

“So I take it you had no idea that there was something odd happening right in front of the house?” he ventured.

“Absolutely not,” Lowery retorted.

“Were the drapes open when you came into the room?”

Lowery’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I think the butler might have been closing them when I came into the drawing room. Yes, that’s right, Stevens was at the window untying the cords. A moment later, he pulled the panels together. But I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was already dark outside and I know the family values privacy. The drapes are always closed in the evenings.”

“Have you ever met Miss Moran?” Witherspoon asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “Rosemary has mentioned her, of course. She has very fond memories of the woman. But I’ve not made her acquaintance.”

“When you were coming through the back garden to the house—”

“I didn’t come through the back garden,” he interrupted. “I nipped around the back of number fifteen and slipped in through the conservatory.”

“The conservatory door was unlocked?”

“There would be no point in locking the door, Inspector,” he explained. “The structure hasn’t been finished as yet. It was supposed to be completed before the bad winter weather set in, but there have been a number of delays. Usually, the inside door between the house and the unfinished part is locked, but I knew it wouldn’t be locked this evening. Arabella, Mrs. Evans, had mentioned that she was keeping it open to show her guests the new table and chairs that she’d ordered from Spain.”

“So you came through an unlocked outside door—”

“No, the outside door hasn’t arrived from France. I pushed one of the oilcloths over the lower back windows aside and came in that way. With all this rain, the workers have oilcloths up everywhere.”

Witherspoon couldn’t quite see what the fellow was talking about, but that didn’t matter; he’d insist on being shown the “conservatory” before he and Barnes left.

 

“I’ll wager that’s the place.” Smythe pointed across the road to the house where a constable stood at attention in front of a wrought iron gate. He and Wiggins were standing behind the trunk of a tree at the end of the street. Their hiding place wasn’t very good as the tree wasn’t very large, and even a cursory glance in their direction would reveal the two of them. But as they weren’t the only ones out having a good look at the police activity, Smythe figured as long as they avoided any constables who might recognize them as members of Witherspoon’s household, they should be alright.

Just then, the door of the house directly behind where they were standing opened and two constables stepped out the front door.

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins hissed. “They must be doin’ the house-to-house.” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Oh no, what rotten luck. It’s Constable Griffith.”

“He knows us. We’ve got to get out of ’ere.”

Slowly, so as to not draw attention their way, Smythe turned and started to walk back the way they’d just come. Wiggins followed suit. “Is he watchin’ us?” he muttered to Wiggins.

“Nah, he’s goin’ on to the next house.” He swiveled around and grinned at the coachman. “What are we goin’ to do now? We can’t ’ang about ’ere. If Constable Griffith is ’ere, there’s a good chance a couple of the other lads from the inspector’s station ’ave come to ’elp. Most of them know who we are. They’s seen us lots of times.”

Smythe hated going home with nothing to show for their efforts. Yet Wiggins had a point. Their faces were too well-known to take the risk. “There’s a pub just over there.” He pointed up the road as they rounded the corner. “Let’s see if we can find out if the gossip has gotten around the neighborhood.”

“That’d be a bit fast.” Wiggins laughed. “We don’t even ’ave the name of the victim.”

“True.” They’d reached the pub. Smythe pulled the door open. “But we’ve seen a bunch of coppers over on Chepstow Villas, and that and a few pints should be enough to loosen a few tongues.”

 

“The study is just through there, Inspector.” Sir Madison Lowery pointed to a door off the hallway. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my fiancée before I go.” He nodded curtly and swung around toward the front of the house.

Witherspoon knocked once, opened the door, and stepped inside. Across from the doorway, Arabella Evans sat behind a large desk, holding a glass of brandy. Two formal armchairs with carved backs and gold and burgundy striped upholstery were stationed in front of the desk. An elaborate console table with a marble top was on one side of the room, and on the other stood a secretary in the same wood as the desk.

“Please be brief, Inspector,” Arabella said flatly. “I have a headache and I’d like to retire. This has been a dreadful ordeal.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be as quick as possible,” Witherspoon replied. He noticed she hadn’t invited him to sit down. He had a strong suspicion she wasn’t going to, either. “Did you happen to have occasion to look out the window before the butler closed the curtains?”

“No, Inspector, I was attending to my guests.” She took a sip of her brandy.

“Did any of your guests happen to mention they’d seen any strangers lurking about the neighborhood when they arrived?” He wished he could take the words back as soon as they escaped from his mouth. The question was foolish: It was unlikely any visitors to the house would notice anything of the sort.

“What an absurd question! My guests would hardly be in a position to know if someone out on the pavement was a stranger or not. As to anyone lurking, I can assure you, I’ve no idea what that even means.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll endeavor to make my questions clearer. Did your servants mention they’d seen someone suspicious hanging about the area this afternoon?”

He and Constable Barnes would interview the staff separately, but it never hurt to find out if anyone had made comments about strangers to the mistress of the house.

“It was a formal tea, Inspector”—she sniffed—“and of course, I insist that it be done perfectly. The servants were all too busy attending to their duties to be loitering about staring out the windows.”

“When was the last time you saw or had any communication with Miss Moran?”

“She was Rosemary’s governess. We’ve not seen or heard from her since my daughter was sent off to school when she was eight,” she replied.

“Mrs. Evans, I understand you were absent from the tea for quite a long period of time this afternoon. Where did you go?”

“Where did I go?” she repeated. She stared at him incredulously. “What a silly question. I went to fetch a footman. My husband was late and I wanted to find out if he was still at his office—”

Witherspoon interrupted. “You were going to send a footman all the way to Fenchurch Street?”

“Yes.” She took another drink. “What of it? That’s why I pay my servants, Inspector, to do my bidding. I was very annoyed with Mr. Evans. Sometimes he loses track of time or he falls asleep in his office. But luckily, just as the boy was leaving, Mr. Evans came in the back door.”

“Did Miss Moran live here in London?” Witherspoon’s knee began to throb. He really wished she’d invite him to sit down.

“I’ve no idea where she lived.” She glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall next to the secretary. “Why would I? I’ve just told you we’ve not seen or heard from the woman in years.”

“Yet Miss Evans was sure she heard Miss Moran speaking to you on Monday afternoon,” he pressed.

“My daughter was mistaken. She heard me speaking to the dressmaker.”

“Do you have any idea why Miss Moran might have been in front of your home?”

She shook her head. “None whatsoever.”

“Are any of the knives missing from the kitchen?” He watched her carefully and was rewarded with seeing her eyes widen in surprise.

“What an odd thing to ask. How on earth should I know something . . .” Her voice faltered as she realized the implication of his question. “I find this line of inquiry very offensive, Inspector. I shall make sure your superiors hear about this.”

“I meant no offense, ma’am,” he replied. “But a woman has been stabbed by what appears to be a common kitchen knife, and as far as I can tell, the only kitchen she had any connection to was the one in this house.” He’d no idea if the knife was a common one or not, but it had had a plain brown handle and looked very much like the ones he saw Mrs. Goodge use.

Outraged, she leapt to her feet. “Are you deaf? I’ve told you we’ve not seen the woman in years. How dare you ask such a question? We’ve nothing to do with Agatha Moran and none of my kitchen knives are missing. Now I’ll thank you to leave.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries stifled a yawn and put more water on to boil. Smythe and Wiggins had come home, but they’d learned very little, only the name of the family who lived in the house near where the victim was found. Betsy had reported back that Lady Cannonberry was delighted to help and would be over tomorrow for their morning meeting. Smythe had then reminded Betsy that her family was arriving on the eleven fifteen train from Liverpool and wouldn’t it be a good idea if Luty or Lady Cannonberry took over some of Betsy’s tasks in the investigation. Betsy had taken umbrage at his remarks that just because she was getting married and had family coming to the wedding would be reason to shirk her duties. A row had been averted by Mrs. Goodge’s quick thinking wherein she reminded everyone that there were plenty of people to share the load.

She yawned again and glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight and she was tired, but she was determined to stay awake and get what information she could out of the inspector. This might very well be the last case they could do together in their present circumstances. Oh, she wasn’t worried that Betsy and Smythe would give up their investigations; it was too important for both of them. But she also knew that once the two of them had left the house, things wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps it wouldn’t be noticeable at first, but life at Upper Edmonton Gardens would most definitely change.

In the quiet night, she heard the clip- clop of a horse’s hooves and the jangling of a harness as a hansom cab pulled up in front of the house. She picked up a tea towel and pulled the hot plate out of the warming oven. Putting it on the tray, she covered it with a lid, checked to make sure everything else was at the ready, and went upstairs. She reached the dining room just as the inspector unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

“Oh dear, Mrs. Jeffries, I didn’t expect you to wait up for me.” He put his umbrella in the stand by the coat tree and took off his bowler hat. “It’s terribly late.”

“I wanted to make sure you had a bite to eat before you retired for the night, sir.” She nodded at the tray. “We’ve kept this warm for you. Shall I put it on the dining table?”

“That would be perfect. I’m famished.” He smiled gratefully as he shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and hung it up.