Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  By the time the others had returned for their afternoon meeting, Mrs. Jeffries’ mood had improved a bit, but not by much. “Goodness, this is lovely,” she commented as she slipped into her seat. “Mrs. Goodge has outdone herself.”

  The cook had put out scones, seed cake, and freshly made brown bread. There was also a pot of her fancy damson plum preserves.

  “I thought the occasion called for somethin’ a bit special.” The cook smiled at Betsy and Smythe. “Tomorrow’s your big day. It never hurts to start the celebratin’ a bit early. Besides, everythin’ else is done. Phyllis has done a wonderful job of gettin’ the upstairs rooms ready for the reception, Wiggins has the waiters at the ready, and the entire house is clean as a whistle.”

  “All we need is the bride, groom, and food.” Wiggins reached for the jam, took off the top, and spooned it onto his plate.

  Betsy giggled. “We’ll be there this time for sure. I can’t wait to see all my friends in church.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “The inspector does remember that he’s to walk me down the aisle at half past two?”

  “Of course he does,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She’d remind him again when he got home this evening.

  “Don’t worry, Betsy. I’m meeting him here at two o’clock,” Ruth added. “And the carriage taking the both of you to the church will be here at two twenty, just in case there’s a lot of traffic on Holland Park Road.”

  “I don’t need a carriage.” Betsy blushed. “The church is just across the garden.”

  “Of course you need a ride.” Smythe helped himself to a slice of cake. “You’ll not want to get your new shoes dirty walkin’ across the garden, and besides, it might rain.”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even joke about that . . .” She broke off as they heard a pounding at the back door.

  “Who in the dickens is that?” Luty looked around curiously. “We’re all here.”

  Wiggins was already on his feet and racing for the hall. Fred trailed along at his heels.

  The door opened and they heard the footman say, “Cor blimey, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We’ve all wondered if you’d get back in time for the weddin’.”

  “I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” a familiar voice said. “Hello, Fred, old boy.”

  A few moments later, Wiggins, with a bouncing Fred at his heels, came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, pale-faced man with auburn hair.

  “Dr. Bosworth,” Mrs. Jeffries cried in delight. “How wonderful to see you.”

  She started to rise, but he waved her back into her chair.

  “It’s wonderful to see all of you.” He’d been to the house many times, so he headed for the empty chair next to Lady Cannonberry. He nodded at each of them as he came to the table.

  “Let me get you a plate.” Betsy got up. “You’ll not want to miss tasting Mrs. Goodge’s scones.”

  “When did you get back?” Hatchet asked. “We heard you were in Wales.”

  “My train got back this morning, and I stopped in at St. Thomas’.” He grinned at Mrs. Jeffries. “Matron told me you’d been there looking for me.”

  Betsy slipped a plate, a serviette, and silverware in front of him and went back to her seat.

  “Indeed I was.” She poured him a cup of tea and passed it along to him. “I wanted your opinion on several topics.”

  “I heard about your murder.” Bosworth reached for a scone. “It was in the Cardiff newspapers. Poor woman, stabbing is a messy way to die. I hope she went quickly. Unfortunately, there’s not much I can tell you about her death. I’ve not had time to track down the postmortem report.”

  “As you’ve only just returned, that is understandable,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Let me tell you what we know. Agatha Moran was stabbed through the heart. The police report estimated that there were two or three thrusts of the knife. Inspector Witherspoon told me that the postmortem said the murder weapon was probably an ordinary kitchen knife.”

  Bosworth swallowed the bite he’d just put in his mouth. “Did he mention how long the blade might have been?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s too bad,” he replied. “The papers say she was found on a public street just after dark. Apparently, she was found by a passerby right after she’d been stabbed. That leads me to believe her death must have been very quick.”

  “That’s what we think, too,” Luty said. She told him the rest of the details.

  He ate his scone as he listened. When she’d finished, he took a sip of tea. “It sounds like the poor woman didn’t lay there suffering while she bled to death. Still, it’s an ugly way to die, but I’ll know more after I get my hands on the report.”

  “Dr. Bosworth, is there a poison that looks like food poisoning but is really something bad enough to make sure you die?” Betsy asked. “I know it’s an odd question, but we’ve a reason for asking.”

  “We think someone connected to the case might have murdered two wives with fake food poisonin’,” Mrs. Goodge added. She told him about Sir Madison Lowery.

  Bosworth crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. “There are a number of poisons that produce the same symptoms. The fact of the matter is, if the attending doctor was treating both husband and wife and they’d both become ill after eating bad seafood, he’d probably have diagnosed food poisoning and wouldn’t have checked for anything else.”

  “And if only one of them died, he wouldn’t have insisted on a postmortem,” Hatchet stated. “Correct?”

  “Most likely not, especially if the husband were a member of the aristocracy. But it’s odd that your killer would switch from poison to a knife—”

  Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “He’s not our killer. He couldn’t be. He’s got a very good alibi. We’ve no idea who murdered poor Miss Moran.”

  “Maybe what I found out today will help a bit,” Smythe offered. “My source told me somethin’ very interestin’.” He relayed what he’d learned from Blimpey Groggins, making sure he didn’t leave anything out of his recitation.

  When he’d finished, no one commented. Then Mrs. Jeffries said, “So Arabella Evans took Agatha Moran’s child and raised it as her own.”

  “But how could she fool a man like that?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Wouldn’t he notice she wasn’t with child?”

  “Not if he was in Argentina,” Mrs. Jeffries mused, her expression thoughtful. “And according to the gossip, Jeremy Evans was going to divorce her and that would have ruined her socially. So she gets him to agree to go off on a business trip halfway around the world, and when he returns, she presents him with a child. It’s one thing for Evans not to care how a divorce might affect either of them, but he knew something like that would ruin a child’s life.”

  Mrs. Goodge still looked confused. “But how could they have done it? Mrs. Evans didn’t grow a belly and Miss Moran did.”

  “It would be easy,” Bosworth interjected. “This was twenty years ago, Mrs. Goodge, and back then, many women of a certain class wouldn’t venture out of their homes when they were expecting.”

  “But there would be servants . . .”

  “Who were bribed to keep their mouths shut,” Smythe said. “How do you think my source got his information? When Jeremy Evans boarded the ship to Argentina, Arabella Evans hired Miss Moran to be a companion, and the two women moved to a cottage out in the country, away from all those pryin’ eyes.”

  “Agatha Moran made a deal with Arabella Evans that she could stay with the family and be the girl’s nurse and then her governess,” Smythe continued. “But it looks like Mrs. Evans sent the girl off to school and paid Miss Moran off.”

  “That’s probably where she got the money to buy the house in Islington and open the hotel,” Luty surmised.

  “And Mrs. Evans pulling a nasty trick like that would explain Miss Moran throwing a fit when she found out,” Betsy added. “But she took the money.”

  “And kept an eye on her daughter.” Ruth to
ok a dainty bite of brown bread. “Mrs. Middleton admitted to Gerald that Agatha Moran frequently went to Bayswater to have a look at the Evans house. She must have been trying to watch out for the girl.”

  “And when she found out that Lowery was a probable murderer, she must have gone to see Sutton to enlist his help in making sure the marriage didn’t take place,” Hatchet said excitedly.

  “Does that mean that Sutton murdered Miss Moran?” Luty asked. “You know, to keep her from spillin’ the beans about him bein’ Rosemary’s papa. He’d not have wanted Eleanor North to find out he’d fathered a child and abandoned the mother.”

  Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. According to Mrs. North’s second statement, Sutton turned the other way and went home before she went to the Evans house that evening.”

  “He could have come back,” Smythe said. “He could have waited for her to go inside and then come back, spotted Miss Moran, and shoved a knife in her heart.”

  “Which would mean he’d have had the knife on his person and been prepared to commit murder,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. Something didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. What she needed was a bit of peace and quiet so she could absorb this new information.

  “And he’d have had to have known that Rosemary Evans was his daughter,” Hatchet said softly.

  “I’ll bet he did know,” Luty murmured.

  “What makes you say that?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

  “Remember how he and Eleanor North met? He was walkin’ past her house,” she explained. “Now why in tarna tion would he be in that neighborhood if it wasn’t to try and catch a glimpse of his daughter?”

  Mrs. Jeffries really wished she could have just a few moments to think this through.

  “I’ll bet that Mrs. Evans is the killer.” Wiggins helped himself to another slice of cake. “Let’s look at it logically. Miss Moran comes back from holiday and finds out her daughter is goin’ to marry a murderer. She hurries along to the Evans household and tells Mrs. Evans she’s got to stop the weddin’. I’ll bet it was Miss Moran that Rosemary Evans overheard ar guin’ with her mother on that Monday afternoon.”

  “And we know that Arabella Evans is such a social climber, she’d die before she’d stop Rosemary’s marriage to an aristocrat,” Ruth pointed out.

  “That’s right.” Wiggins waved his fork for emphasis. “And we know that Mrs. Evans was gone for a good long while durin’ the tea, so she could have nipped down to the kitchen, snatched up a knife, and hurried outside to stab it into poor Miss Moran’s heart.”

  “Did Mrs. Evans have blood on her clothes?” Dr. Bosworth asked. “If she was stabbed in the heart, the blood would have spurted and the killer would have gotten some of it on his person.”

  “And Mrs. Evans couldn’t have had time to murder Agatha Moran,” Betsy said. “When she disappeared during the tea, she sneaked off to smoke a cigarette.”

  Witherspoon was so tired when he got home that evening that he asked Mrs. Jeffries to send his dinner up to his room on a tray. “I think I’ll just have a quick bite to eat and then go right to bed. I don’t want to eat in the dining room; I might get food on those lovely lace runners on the table.”

  “We can move them off, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries argued.

  “No, no, everyone’s worked very hard to get the house in order for the reception, and we all want it to be perfect.” He yawned and started up the staircase.

  “Would you like a quick glass of sherry before you go up, sir?” She hurried after him. “We can have it in your study.” She’d come up with a clever way to pass along the information they’d learned today. Tomorrow wasn’t just Betsy’s wedding; it was Rosemary Evans’ wedding as well. The Evans wedding and the killer were tied together, but for the life of her, she couldn’t determine the murderer’s identity. Not until she had some time to herself.

  “I don’t want one, but please feel free to have a nice drink yourself.” He turned and gave her a winsome smile as he reached the first-floor landing. “All I want is a quick supper and then I’m off to bed. Send Wiggins up with a tray. I’ll leave it in the hall when I’m done. I want to get plenty of rest. I’ve a big responsibility tomorrow.”

  Upstairs, Smythe and Betsy sat on the couch in the small sitting room and held hands. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

  “No, I’ve been waitin’ for this day for a long time.” He took a deep breath. He’d wanted the flat to be a surprise, but he’d changed his mind and decided it might make her happier if she knew their plans. “When we come back from our weddin’ trip, we’re movin’ into our own flat. It’s close by so we can stay on here. And well . . . I’ve bought the buildin’, but I’ve put it in your name so you’d have somethin’. If you don’t like the colors and the wallpapers, we can change them, and I’ve changed my will so that if somethin’ happens to me, I’ve left everythin’ to you.”

  She put her hand over his mouth, stopping the rush of words. “Don’t say such things, not on the night before our wedding. I’ve come close to losing you before, but nothing is going to happen to either of us . . . and you didn’t have to change your will. I don’t have anything to give to you except my love and my trust, so not another word.”

  “Your love was all I ever wanted.” He grinned. “And by the way, we’re goin’ to Paris for our weddin’ trip. You can tell Norah and Leo tomorrow before the weddin’. I know she’s been pesterin’ you about it.”

  Betsy’s eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of happiness. “She’s been pestering me about everything, but she’s my sister. I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other again. By the way, I told her that you weren’t poor, but she’d already figured that out on her own.”

  “Of course she did.” He laughed and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “She’s a smart one, just like her sister.”

  Mrs. Jeffries closed the double doors behind her as she stepped into the dining room. It looked wonderful. White lace runners were draped over the dining table, now with the additional leaves added so that it ran the length of the room. Elegant green and white bunting, courtesy of Ruth, had been draped over the windows, and net streamers, also in green and white, were looped from the chandelier to all four corners, forming a festive crown over the room. Polished silver serving platters, cut glass crystal, and the household’s best china were lined up on the sideboard. Mrs. Jeffries nodded in satisfaction. Phyllis had done them proud. Betsy was going to have a wonderful reception.

  Next she went into the drawing room and smiled in sheer delight as she stepped inside. More bunting at the windows, more streamers crisscrossing the ceiling, lace runners on all the cabinets and tables, and to top it off, a beautifully decorated Christmas tree with the wedding presents tucked safely beneath the branches. That had been Wiggins’ idea.

  She spent the next ten minutes turning off the lamps and locking up the house. It was late and she was tired, but she knew she’d never sleep. Not with all the ideas racing through her head. Picking up one lantern, she went back upstairs and into the dining room, where she helped herself to a sherry before going into the drawing room. She put the lantern on the table and sank down on the settee.

  Closing her eyes, she put her head back against the cushion and took several long, deep breaths. She’d found that relaxing her body helped to free her mind. She didn’t try to make sense out of any of the facts of the case; she simply breathed and let her mind go where it would.

  Snatches of conversation drifted in and out of her mind. The scullery maid complained that someone had stolen a carpetbag promised to her. She relaxed her shoulders into the cushions. “He told her they’d covered everything, includin’ her ruddy table, and what’s more, them cloths cost good money and if they all weren’t accounted for, he’d add it to her bill. You could hear them shoutin’ at each other all the way down in the kitchen.” Mrs. Jeffries opened her eyes and reached for her sherry. She took a sip and closed them again. “They confirmed the light was burning w
hen they left that day.” Her eyes flew open and she sat up. He described the shelves filled with exotic products that no one wanted and laughed as he recounted seeing Douglas Branson’s head coming up from behind a stack of files. He repeated everything the chief clerk had said, but his expression sobered when he got to the part about Jeremy Evans weeping over his dead cat.

  A pattern formed in her mind. For one brief moment, the entire sequence of events was crystal clear, but before she could rally the individual parts into some semblance of order, it disappeared. But she knew she was right—she knew who killed Agatha Moran.

  But had she figured it out too late? How was she to prove it? The evidence was circumstantial at best, and tomorrow, of all days, was the worst possible time to set any course of action in motion. What if she was wrong? What if she had lost the ability to put the puzzle pieces together?

  She got up and began to pace the room. No, she might doubt herself sometimes, but she knew she was right. This solution was the only one that made sense. She heard the hall clock strike the hour and knew she ought to go upstairs. Sleep would be impossible, but perhaps in the privacy of her room she could think through all her options and decide the best way to proceed. Picking up her lantern, she went upstairs.

  She closed the door as quietly as possible and blew out the flame. Darkness descended, but she’d left her blind up and there was enough light for her to see. Putting the lantern on her desk, she made her way to the window. She had to think.

  She eased herself into her rocker and fixed her gaze on the gas lamp across the road. She kept her eyes wide open, letting her vision blur and shift as she concentrated on the faint light. The idea she’d had earlier came quickly, and this time, her mind paid attention to the details. She sat there for over an hour.

  Mrs. Jeffries gave herself a small shake and stood up. She no longer had any doubts about the identity of the killer. But the question was, could an arrest wait a day or two? That was the real quandary. Tomorrow was the biggest day in Betsy’s life, and she wanted everything to be perfect. Inspector Witherspoon was giving her away in marriage. If an arrest was made tomorrow, he’d be stuck for hours at the station, questioning the suspect and filling out paperwork. Could she do that to Betsy? Could she do that to Witherspoon?