Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (23 page)

It was quite late in the afternoon before everyone arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens for their daily meeting. Luty was fairly bursting with excitement, Wiggins’s cheeks were pink, Hatchet’s eyes sparkled, and Smythe looked like the cat that had just got the cream.

Mrs. Goodge and Betsy wore almost identical glum expressions. Apparently, it hadn’t been a very good day for either of them.

“I don’t think we’ve much time this evening,” Mrs. Jeffries said without preamble. “So let’s get right to it. I’d like to go first if no one objects.” She paused for a brief moment and then continued. She held up a set of keys. The keys that Wiggins and Smythe had found on McIntosh’s body. “I’ve been trying to think what we ought to do with these. I don’t think they’re particularly
important evidence, but I do think the police ought to know about them.”

“Cor blimey.” Smythe made a face. “I can’t believe we forgot about ’em. Maybe I ought to nip over and plant ’em somewhere in the school.”

“That’s a good idea,” she replied. “The inspector said the school was thoroughly searched, so I think our best course of action is to plant them on the grounds. Then we must make sure our inspector finds them. But for the life of me, I can’t think of how we’re going to do that without being too obvious.”

“We’ll find a way,” Wiggins put in confidently. “We always do. Is that all you’ve got, Mrs. Jeffries?”

She had a great deal more, but she wasn’t quite ready to share her ideas with the others yet. It was a bit too premature. “I’m finished. Would you care to go next?”

“I’d be right pleased.” Wiggins told them about his visit with Cora Babbel. He was a true gentleman and he didn’t mention her size. “She was the cook at Helmsley’s Grammar until it closed. She had rooms on the far side of the kitchen. She said that Stan McIntosh was a right odd one and that no one at the school liked ’im.”

“We know that already,” Mrs. Goodge said irritably. She could tell the others all had plenty to report, while she had practically nothing.

“But what you don’t know is that ’e used to sneak out at night,” Wiggins said. “Cora told me McIntosh would wait until the place were locked up tighter than a drum and then slip out the back door.”

“Was he meeting a woman?” Smythe asked.

Wiggins shook his head. “No, that’s what Cora thought at first. But one night she followed him. She was angry at him because he’d run to the headmaster with some tale about her stealing food from the school kitchen and sellin’ it on the side.”

“So she was trying to get the goods on him, was she?” Luty chuckled. “Good for her.”

Wiggins grinned. “She didn’t come out and admit it, but I think that’s what she was doin’. Anyway, when she got outside, she saw it were a man McIntosh was meeting. The fellow was carrying something; Cora couldn’t make out what it was, but it was something with a long handle, like a broom. They headed off toward the gate leading to the churchyard. Cora was goin’ to follow ’em but she must’ve made some noise, because all of a sudden they stopped and turned in her direction. She had time to duck behind a bush, but it scared her, so when they went on, she went back inside.”

“I wonder who it was he was meeting,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“I wonder what it was he was carrying,” Hatchet added. “Somehow, I don’t think it was a broom.”

“What else has a long handle?” Betsy asked. She wanted to contribute something useful, even if it was just questions.

“Maybe he was meeting Tim Porter,” Mrs. Goodge suggested. “Maybe that’s the connection between Porter and McIntosh. They were up to something together.”

“That’s possible,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “But if they were up to something together, what was it?”

“More importantly, who killed ’em?” Smythe said. He glanced at Betsy. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and he could almost see her mind working. He hoped she wasn’t up to anything. There’d been a time or two in the past when she’d done things that put her in danger.

“Go on, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered. “We’re short on time here. The inspector might be home any minute.”

“That’s really about it,” Wiggins said. “Cora didn’t ’ave much else to say about Stan.” He rather thought that McIntosh’s night activities was an important clue.
“The only other thing she mentioned was that he wouldn’t let anyone else get the mail.”

“What do you mean?” Hatchet asked. “How could he stop anyone from picking it up once it was shoved in the slot through the door.”

“School had one of them locked baskets over their door slot,” he explained. He referred to a square, woven metal device placed over the slot. It was hinged on one side and could be locked. “McIntosh kept the keys and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even the head, ’ave ’em. Said unlockin’ the basket and getting the mail was ’is job and ’is job alone.”

“Hmmph,” Mrs. Goodge snorted faintly. “Sounds like he put on airs.”

“Is that it?” Mrs. Jeffries inquired. Wiggins nodded and she looked around the table. “Who’d like to be next?”

“I’ll have a go,” Luty said. “Stan McIntosh worked for Gibbens Steamship Lines. They go between here and Canada. Before that, he worked for the White Star Line on the North America run. He was a passenger steward up until two years ago. Then he suddenly up and quits.”

“That must have been when he got the job at Helmsley’s,” Betsy said.

“It would ’ave been,” Wiggins interjected. “Cora said McIntosh come to the place about then.”

“Why would you give up a job traveling to go and be a caretaker at a school that was going broke?” Smythe asked. “I know stewards don’t make a fortune, but that’s got to be a better job than caretakin’ at that ruddy school.”

“Maybe he got tired of travelin’ and wanted to settle down,” Luty suggested. “Whatever it was, he quit and come to London. I also found out that no one knows anything about that Mr. Eddington. I asked my bankers and all my other sources in the City and no one’s ever
heard of Eddington or his investment group. I think that’s mighty suspicious.”

“Madam, many investors prefer to remain anonymous,” Hatchet told her. “Besides, Mr. Eddington says his investors are Canadian and American. It’s no wonder your sources haven’t heard of them. They’re foreigners.”

“Seems like this case if filled with people no one’s ever heard of,” Betsy muttered. “Almost like they just popped up out of the earth.”

“Is that it, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked in an effort to hurry things along.

“That’s all I have.” She gave her butler a disgusted look. “Why don’t we let Hatchet go next, looks to me like he’s gonna pop a collar button if he don’t get it out.”

“Thank you, madam.” Hatchet beamed at his employer. “If no one objects, I do have some interesting tidbits to share.” He told them about his visit to St. Matthew’s and his lucky meeting with Father Jerridan. He left out the part about masquerading as a private inquiry agent.

No one spoke when he’d finished. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries broke the silence. “I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but I’m sure it means something. But I don’t think a minor dispute about Miss Gentry’s dog being on a lead is really a good motive for attempted murder.” But the moment the words were out of her mouth, something niggled at the back of her mind.

“Neither do I,” Hatchet replied. “But so far, he’s the only person we’ve found that has any reason to dislike Miss Gentry.”

“But he doesn’t have any connection with Porter or McIntosh,” Mrs. Goodge put in, “so if he’s the one trying to kill Miss Gentry, then her case doesn’t have a thing to do with the other murders.”

“I can’t believe that’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. The
idea she’d just glimpsed had disappeared as quickly as it had come. She frowned slightly and resolved to try to get it back when she was alone in her rooms.

Smythe noticed the housekeeper’s expression. “Are you all right, Mrs. Jeffries?”

She gave him an quick smile. “I’m fine; I was just thinking of something. But it wasn’t important. Would you like to go next?”

Smythe nodded. He told them about his meeting with Emmy Flynt. He didn’t mention her being a prostitute. “So it clears up why they all closed ranks on me at the White Hart that night. The last person who’d been in there askin’ questions about McIntosh was Tim Porter and he ended up dead. They weren’t coverin’ somethin’ up, they was scared.”

“But by then they knew that McIntosh was dead,” Luty pointed out. “So why was they scared?”

“They knew McIntosh was dead but they’d no idea who killed ’im; no one does. They’d assumed McIntosh might ’ave killed Porter because of ’is askin’ all them questions about McIntosh. Then McIntosh ’imself was killed and none of ’em knew what to think except that there was someone out there killin’ people left and right. Believe it or not, they was warnin’ me, tryin’ to do me a good turn.”

“Did Emmy know how much money McIntosh had?” Betsy asked.

“No, but she was fairly sure ’e weren’t lyin’ to ’er about goin’ off and livin’ in luxury.”

From upstairs, they heard the front door open. Mrs. Jeffries leapt to her feet. “Oh drat, that’s probably the inspector. I hadn’t expected him home so early.”

“I’ll get his tray ready.” Mrs. Goodge dashed toward the wet larder. “Come on, Betsy, give me a hand.”

“We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Jeffries called over her shoulder as she dashed for the stairs.
“I have a feeling we’ll have more information to share by then.”

The inspector was in the drawing room by the time she arrived upstairs. “Good evening, sir. This is nice, you’re home early.”

“I’m going back out again,” he replied. “Constable Barnes and I want to have a word with Reverend Cooksey and his wife. They don’t live far from here.”

“That’s too bad, sir. You look as if you’re tired. But Mrs. Goodge will have a tray ready in a few moments, sir. Would you like tea or sherry?”

“I’d love a sherry …” He hesitated. “But as I’m still on duty, as it were, I don’t suppose I ought to. I’ve had the most bizarre day, Mrs. Jeffries.” He told her about his rather unsatisfactory interview with Ethel Caraway and about going to search the spot where Tim Porter’s body had been found.

“What did you do with the coin purse, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously.

“Constable Barnes nipped down to the station and logged it in as evidence. I expect there will be some trouble about that. Inspector Nivens won’t be pleased about our search.”

“Then he should have searched it properly himself, sir,” she retorted. She didn’t think her inspector would hear one word from Nivens. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to raise a fuss over evidence he’d have found if he’d been doing his duty. “So, sir, any ideas?”

“If you mean do I have any ideas about who the killer is or even whether or not the cases are connected, well, the answer has got to be no. I’ve not a clue.” He sighed. “But I refuse to give up.”

“That’s the spirit, sir. Why, your tenacity has already paid off. You found that purse.”

“Yes, but the purse may not have anything to do with Porter’s murder. As Constable Barnes pointed out, Tim
Porter was a pickpocket. He’d probably pinched the purse before he was killed.”

“Excuse me, sir. If I remember correctly, don’t pickpockets get rid of the purse as soon as they take the money out? Aren’t they afraid of getting caught with an item that’s so easy to identify?” She could hardly mention that her sources had made it clear that Porter hadn’t been picking pockets on the day he’d been killed.

Witherspoon’s brows drew together. “Why, you’re right. That means that unless the murder took place within minutes of his picking some Canadian woman’s pocket, that purse is some sort of clue.”

“Now you just have to figure out what kind of clue it is,” she said cheerfully. “By the way, have you found out any more about Stan McIntosh’s background? You didn’t say if you’d met with the secretary of the board and got his references.”

“Oh, drat. I do hope the secretary will forgive me; in the excitement of the search, I completely forgot I was supposed to meet with the man. I’ll have to do it first thing tomorrow morning. Ah …” He cocked his ear toward the hall. “Is that my dinner coming up the stairs?”

Betsy popped her head into the drawing room. “I’ve got your tray, sir.”

“Excellent.” He got up and followed the maid to the dining room. Mrs. Jeffries followed a bit more slowly. She had much to think about.

The Reverend Harold Cooksey didn’t look pleased to be disturbed. He was a tall, thin man with a ruddy complexion and wisps of gray hair circling his bald head. His thin lips pursed disapprovingly as he looked down his nose at the two policemen in his small drawing room. “I was just about to do evening prayers, sir,” he said to Witherspoon. “This isn’t at all convenient.”

“We’re sorry to interrupt your devotions, sir,” the inspector
replied, “but we’ve come around twice in the past two days and neither you nor your wife were at home. We have some questions we’d like you to answer.”

“Oh, let’s get it over with, Harold.” Louisa Cooksey, an older, fatter, and rather meaner-looking version of Miss Gentry, glared at the two policemen. “It’s only Annabeth’s silly nonsense they want to talk about.”

“We take Miss Gentry’s problems quite seriously, I assure you,” Witherspoon replied. He was amazed that the same family could produce three such different women. “Do either of you know of anyone who would wish to harm Miss Gentry?”