Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (19 page)

He now looked positively puzzled. “Er, uh…yes, I suppose I do say that. Uh, I didn’t, perchance, happen to mention what I meant when I said it, did I?”

Knowing she’d succeeded in getting him so muddled he wouldn’t remember where any ideas had come from, she laughed. “You’re so amusing, sir. I must say I think it’s remarkable that you’ve still got your sense of humor after a hard day’s work. You meant that in each and every murder, if one kept the most basic motives in mind, one could generally find the killer.”

He smiled weakly, but his eyes were still confused. “Oh yes. Well, yes, of course.”

“So in the case of the attempted murder of Miss Gentry, the first thing one would do is find out who benefited from her death and, equally important, what their financial circumstances are now. Am I correct, sir?”

He nodded. But he still looked a bit confused. Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. The timing was perfect. This was her chance to let him know what they’d learned about these strange cases. The inspector was tired, confused, and slightly tipsy, as he had returned home with a very empty stomach and it was quite a large sherry she’d given him. She reached for his empty glass. “Let me get you another drink, sir. I think after today’s events you could use one.”

“’Ere, let me ’elp with that,” Smythe said from the open door of the inspector’s bedroom early the next morning. The inspector had already left for the day.

Betsy looked up from the tangle of linens she’d just pulled off the double brass bed. “I’m just changing his sheets. It’ll not take a minute.”

He pushed into the room. “It’ll go even faster with two of us doin’ it. Don’t look so surprised. I do know
’ow to make a bed.” It bothered him that she worked so hard. He had enough money that she’d never have to turn her hand for the rest of her days if that’s what she wanted. But they’d decided that neither of them was ready to give up their investigating and so they’d decided on a long engagement. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too long. He loved the lass more than life itself.

Betsy laughed and slapped the neatly folded clean sheet onto the center of the mattress. “All right, then. Give us a hand.” She unfolded the sheet, grabbed the edges, and gave it a good shake. She giggled at his efforts to grab the linen on his side.

He finally got his fingers on it. “Are you going to try making contact with Eliza Adderly this morning?”

She nodded. “Pull that end up tighter. I’ll find Eliza. But now that I think about it, she might have just been talking. You know, trying to make herself sound important.”

“Why do you say that?” He tucked his edge of the sheet under the mattress.

She finished her side and then turned and picked up the clean top sheet she’d left on the chair by the window. “I don’t know. The thought just suddenly occurred to me last night before I fell asleep. Once I’d thought of it, the surer I was that it might be true.” Sometimes she didn’t know how to explain things properly. She was sure there must be words that described what she’d felt, but she didn’t know what they were.

“I know what ya mean.” He grabbed the edge of the top sheet she tossed in his direction. “Sometimes the oddest things pop into my ’ead just before I’m noddin’ off and it generally turns out to be right. But I still think ya ought to ’ave another word with the girl.”

“I’m going to,” Betsy assured him. She finished tucking the top sheet in and reached for the blanket. “Then I thought I’d pop over to Miss Gentry’s neighborhood
and see if anyone knows any more about the Caraways or the Cookseys.” She frowned. “Seems strange to me that the only suspects we’ve got in this case is people that didn’t even know the murder victim.”

“You talkin’ about McIntosh or Porter?”

“Either of them,” she replied. “That’s not right. Someone’s got to know something about McIntosh. Everyone’s got friends or relations somewhere.”

“Maybe Wiggins will ’ave a bit of luck with the cook. Maybe she knew a thing or two more about the fellow.” Smythe carefully spread his half of the blanket onto his side of the bed. “Actually, I was thinkin’ of ’avin’ a go at findin’ out a bit more about Porter.”

“Good.” Betsy gave him one of her beautiful smiles. “He’s a bit of a dark horse.”

He didn’t return it. He stared at her for a long moment.

Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m wonderin’ how long we ought to be engaged. You know how I feel about you, Betsy.” He took care to enunciate his words properly, especially as he was talking to her. She’d never mentioned his lack of formal education or the way he spoke, but he knew she respected bettering yourself and he was determined to be everything she wanted in a man.

She’d been dreading this discussion. “And you know how I feel about you. I love you with all my heart. But I don’t want to give up our investigating. Not yet.”

“Maybe we wouldn’t ’ave to …” His voice trailed off as he saw her shake her head.

“We would,” she said fiercely. “Once we were married, you’d not be content for me to keep on being a maid. You’d want us to have our own home. Once we did that, we’d be gone and that would be it. You’re a rich man”—she glanced up to make sure none of the others were passing by the open door—“and you’d not
want me fetching and carrying for someone else, even our inspector.”

What she said was true. He was rich and he did want to give her a home of her own. He wanted to give her everything. But he didn’t want to give up their investigations any more than she did. He sighed. “All right, we’ll wait. But not forever, lass. I do want to marry you.”

“And I want to marry you,” she said softly. “But we’ve plenty of time, Smythe. There’s no rush.” She didn’t tell him she’d been giving their future a lot of thought. She realized something he didn’t, or perhaps something he did, but wouldn’t face.

She knew that no matter how big a house he bought her and no matter how much money he had, if they stayed in England, he’d always be a coachman and she’d always be a maid. But that was something they could talk about at another time. Right now she was glad she’d gotten him off the subject of setting a date for their wedding. Their investigations were too precious to give up yet. Being a part of them made her feel like she was contributing to something important. Something noble. She wasn’t willing to give it up. Not even for love. Not yet.

Mrs. Goodge balled her hand into a fist, drew her arm back, and let fly with a punch. The dough crumpled on its side. She let fly with another punch and it flattened completely. “I did hear something this morning, but I don’t think it’s got naught to do with our case,” she said casually. She wasn’t sure the tidbit she’d heard was worth sharing with the others. Truth was, she’d been sorely disappointed in the bits and pieces she’d picked up.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Jeffries prodded. She could see that the cook was in one of her dark moods. She sometimes
got that way when she’d not had much luck with her sources. The housekeeper always tried to jolly her out of them. “Come now, Mrs. Goodge, do tell. I’m the only one here, so no matter how trivial you think it is, I’d like to hear it.”

“Well …” The cook picked up a clean tea towel and draped it over the bowl of bread dough. “Mrs. Macklingberg, she used to do a bit of cleaning for that Mrs. Dempsey—”

“The Mrs. Dempsey that left Annabeth Gentry her house?”

“That’s right. Michael, the butcher’s boy, told me that Mrs. Macklingberg had told him that Mrs. Dempsey had gone a bit childish in her dotage.”

“Childish how?”

“She’d started seeing things. She used to point at the mirror in the parlor and ask Mrs. Macklingberg to invite someone who wasn’t even there to tea.”

“She saw people in the mirror that weren’t there?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. Unfortunately, Mrs. Goodge was right, this didn’t have anything to do with their case. But she wasn’t going to cut the cook short. She’d hear her out.

“Yes, poor old thing. It must have been awful for her. She saw men in the mirrors that weren’t there and a few days before her death she’d started seeing monsters in the garden.”

“How very sad.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head sympathetically. “I wonder what kind of creatures haunted the poor woman.”

“Gargoyles.” Mrs. Goodge shrugged. “Mrs. Macklingberg overheard her asking her neighbor if he’d seen the gargoyles digging out in the gardens. Eddington was quite polite about the whole thing; he very calmly replied that he’d only arrived home that very morning, so he couldn’t have seen a thing.”

“How awful to spend your last months on this earth with your mind going like that.” She shuddered and sent up a silent prayer that God would take her fast, painlessly, and with all her faculties intact.

“It wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” the cook said. “She died very quickly after that.”

“Old age does have some blessings.” Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet. She had a number of things to take care of this morning. “The body simply wears out.”

“Let’s hope our bodies go before our minds give out,” the cook said. “I don’t think I fancy people treating me as if I were a dim-witted child.”

“Mr. Eddington, we came as soon as we got your message.” Witherspoon smiled politely. He’d not planned on starting his day here, but when he’d got to the station, there’d been a message that Mr. Eddington might have more information for them. At this point in the investigation, Witherspoon would take any clues he could get.

Eddington gave a short, deprecating bark of a laugh. “Inspector, that’s good of you, but it certainly isn’t urgent. I don’t even know if my information is useful in your investigation. Oh dear, where are my manners? You don’t want to stand about out here on the doorstep. Do come in.” He pulled the door wider and the inspector and Barnes stepped inside.

They followed him into the drawing room. He sat down on the settee and gestured for them to sit as well. As soon as they were settled, Barnes whipped out his notebook.

Witherspoon gave the man an encouraging smile. “Now, sir, what do you have for us?” He prayed it was something really useful. He didn’t think he’d ever been this muddled on a case before.

Eddington looked embarrassed. “This is awkward, Inspector. Most awkward. But it’s something I thought you
ought to know. It’s about Miss Gentry.” He paused. “I don’t think her dog really found that body.”

Witherspoon blinked. “I assure you, sir, the dog did find a body. I checked.”

He shook his head briskly. “Forgive me, Inspector. I’m not very good at explaining this. What I meant to say was that I think she may have known this Porter fellow before he died. Well, of course, if she did, then perhaps her dog finding the body wasn’t as remarkable a feat as everyone thinks.”

“Are you implying that Annabeth Gentry murdered Tim Porter?” Barnes asked. His expression was frankly skeptical.

Eddington looked pained. A slow, red flush crept up his cheeks. “I know it sounds awful and I’ve agonized over whether or not I ought to mention it. Miss Gentry seems a very nice woman. She took wonderful care of Mrs. Dempsey before she died. I honestly don’t know what it means, sir. But I do know my duty and I finally realized I had to tell the truth.”

“Exactly what is the truth?” Witherspoon asked.

Eddington took a deep breath. “I saw Annabeth Gentry giving a strange man money. They were standing in the churchyard. The next day, she and her dog found Porter’s body. I think the man she was giving money to was Tim Porter.”