A feeling of great pride swept through Mrs. Jeffries as she listened to Betsy’s passionate speech. The girl was right; this wasn’t about murder. It had never been about murder.
It was about justice.
Justice that was blind to money, wealth, class, and privilege. Oh, she didn’t fool herself that the law in England was perfect as yet. But they were certainly well on their way.
“Alright you two.” She motioned to the empty chairs. “Sit yourselves down and I’ll tell you everything.”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
Berkley Prime Crime Books by Emily Brightwell
THE INSPECTOR AND MRS. JEFFRIES
MRS. JEFFRIES DUSTS FOR CLUES
THE GHOST AND MRS. JEFFRIES
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES STOCK
MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE BALL
MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE TRAIL
MRS. JEFFRIES PLAYS THE COOK
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISSING ALIBI
MRS. JEFFRIES STANDS CORRECTED
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE STAGE
MRS. JEFFRIES QUESTIONS THE ANSWER
MRS. JEFFRIES REVEALS HER ART
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE CAKE
MRS. JEFFRIES ROCKS THE BOAT
MRS. JEFFRIES WEEDS THE PLOT
MRS. JEFFRIES PINCHES THE POST
MRS. JEFFRIES PLEADS HER CASE
MRS. JEFFRIES SWEEPS THE CHIMNEY
MRS. JEFFRIES STALKS THE HUNTER
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE SILENT KNIGHT
MRS. JEFFRIES APPEALS THE VERDICT
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE BEST LAID PLANS
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE FEAST OF ST. STEPHEN
Anthologies
MRS. JEFFRIES LEARNS THE TRADE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2007 by Cheryl Arguile.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-0-425-21731-3
1. Witherspoon, Gerald (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Jeffries, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—
Fiction. 3. Brompton (Kent, England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.R46443M63 2007
813’.54—dc22
2007017564
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to
Richard Arguile
with love and thanks for all the years
of support, encouragement, and help.
I couldn’t have done it without you!
CHAPTER 1
“I do hope you like this, Stephen.” Maria Farringdon smiled as she handed the bottle of Bordeaux to her host. “Of course, it’s nowhere near as special as that lovely ruby port we received from you yesterday, but our wine merchant assures us this is very good. I do hope you like it.”
“Thank you, dear lady.” Stephen Whitfield bowed graciously in acknowledgment of the gift. He glanced at the bottle, and his blue eyes widened as he read the label. Blast, she’d managed to outdo him. He’d no doubt that the choice of such an expensive wine had been her idea, not her husband’s. Basil was far too well-bred to have gone to such extravagance. This was only to be expected: women from her background always managed to get it wrong. They simply weren’t raised to understand the really important social nuances. “But there was no need for you to go to any trouble.”
“Nonsense,” Basil Farringdon said. “Of course it was necessary. You send us a wonderful bottle of your special port every year. You go to a great deal of trouble.”
“Not really,” he replied.
“But you do,” Basil countered. “You have it shipped all the way from Portugal, and you cork it yourself. It’s about time we reciprocated, don’t you think.” His wide, chubby face creased in a smile. “Maria chose this just for you.”
“And it is much appreciated.” Stephen forced a chuckle and glanced at her. She was smiling at him, but he could see that the smile hadn’t quite reached her eyes. To annoy her, he took her arm and tugged her gently toward a set of double doors farther down the hall. “Let’s go into the drawing room. You two are the first to arrive, but I expect the others will be here shortly.” He looked over his shoulder. Flagg, his butler, had returned from hanging up the guests’ heavy winter wraps and now hovered discreetly at the front door. “I’d like this opened and brought to the drawing room.”
“Yes, sir.” Flagg took the bottle and disappeared.
Whitfield held himself ramrod straight as he escorted his guests into the drawing room. The moment they stepped inside the cavernous room, Maria Farringdon pulled her arm out of his grasp and moved quickly toward a blue brocade love seat. Basil followed his wife.
Whitfield walked over to a mahogany sideboard near the fireplace. He grinned at Maria, his expression amused. She’d not liked his taking her arm, but she could hardly object, as he was merely playing the solicitous host. “Would you care for an aperitif, or would you rather wait for the Bordeaux?”
“I’d like a sherry.” Maria Farringdon returned his smile with an amused one of her own. She couldn’t wait for the evening to progress, for the other guests to arrive. Whitfield was in for a big surprise, and it wouldn’t be one that he was expecting, either. He was so conceited, she thought. He really thought himself a great catch. She studied him dispassionately as he lifted the crystal stopper off the top of a decanter. He was a tall, thin man with steel gray hair, a bristling mustache, and a lean, hawkish face that some women considered very handsome. He’d been a widower for years now, and every widow in London had set her cap for him at one time or another. Maria had never understood why; he wasn’t that rich, and he certainly wasn’t very charming.
She e
ased her thin backside flush against the back of the seat and braced her feet firmly on the floor. Brocade was a very slippery material, and she wasn’t taking any chances of sliding off. She arranged the skirt of her green silk dress and leaned back, preparing to enjoy the spectacle. This was going to be priceless, absolutely priceless. Who would have thought the old fool would actually open it in front of her!
“I’ll have sherry as well,” Basil Farringdon said as he sat down in the armchair next to the sofa. “Are there many others coming this evening?” he asked.
“It’s just a small dinner party,” Stephen replied. “Henry will be here—I knew you’d want to see him—and Eliza’s invited as well. She’s bringing an acquaintance of hers and, of course, my sister-in-law, Rosalind, will be joining us.”
Maria glanced at her husband, and their eyes met. They’d both heard the rumors about Eliza Graham’s “acquaintance.” Apparently Stephen was the only person in London who was still in the dark.
“Ah, excellent.” Stephen looked up from his task as the drawing room door opened and two people, a man and a woman, stepped inside. “You’re finally here.”
“We’re not late, Stephen.” The woman smiled as she spoke, but there was just the barest hint of irritation in her tone. Eliza Graham was forty-seven and well past her youth, yet her hair was still a lustrous dark brown and her skin smooth and unlined. Her elegant wine red evening gown rustled softly as she and her companion swept into the room. “The traffic was dreadful, and it took ages for Hugh to find a cab. It appears that everyone has decided to stay in town for the Christmas season.”
“Now, now, dear.” Hugh Langford let go of her arm. “It didn’t take all that long. It just seemed a long time because it’s so very cold outside. But at least it has finally stopped raining.”
“Does everyone know Hugh?” Eliza stopped and looked around at the other guests.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.” Basil, who’d risen to his feet when they entered the room, crossed the small space separating them, with his hand extended. “I’m Basil Farringdon, and this is my wife, Maria.”
“Sorry, thought you all knew each other,” Stephen mumbled from the background. “This is Hugh Langford.”
Hugh shook hands and then bowed to Maria. “I’m very pleased to meet you both.”
Maria smiled politely and inclined her head in acknowledgment of the introduction. She was quite surprised by the man’s appearance. He looked so very average, so very ordinary, not at all like she’d imagined. According to the gossip she’d heard, he was supposedly quite a Lothario and had a string of brokenhearted women in his past. But if she was any judge, Langdon had to be pushing sixty. His hair, though still more brown than gray, was receding from his forehead; he was barely an inch or so taller than average; and beneath his beautifully tailored navy blue evening coat, he had a distinct potbelly. But then again, when you were as rich as Langford, you didn’t need to worry overly much about your appearance.
Maria glanced at Stephen just as Langford and Eliza sat down together on the settee opposite her. She saw Stephen’s eyes narrow, and a flush crept up his sharp cheekbones. Oh, yes, indeed, tonight was going to be great fun!
“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Wiggins, the footman, said as he came into the kitchen. He was a good-looking young man with brown hair, round apple cheeks, and a very cheerful disposition.
“It’s been cold all week,” Mrs. Goodge, the portly, gray-haired cook, said. She put a platter of pork chops on the table.
“Gracious, that’s a lot of pork,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, commented as she slipped into her spot at the head of the table. “I’m surprised that any of us is even hungry after that lovely tea we had at Mrs. Maynard’s.” The household was eating much later than they usually did because they’d gone to a Christmas tea at their neighbors’.
“There are two extra chops,” the cook replied. “The inspector is having dinner at Lady Cannonberry’s tonight, but he didn’t let me know till I’d already started the chops, so the lad here”—she indicated Wiggins with a nod in his direction—“can eat hearty if he’s a mind to.”
As there was always plenty of food for the servants in the household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, the comment wasn’t taken seriously.
“Betsy’s the one that needs to eat hearty,” Wiggins said, tossing a fast glance in the maid’s direction. “She’s gettin’ as thin as a lamppost.”
“I’ve only lost a pound or two,” Betsy muttered. She pushed a lock of blond hair, which had slipped out of her cap, back behind her ear. She knew the others were worried about her, but she was fine, just fine. She wished they’d stop fretting over her. The past six months had been the most miserable of her life, but she was getting over it. “I haven’t lost that much weight.”
“Yes, you ’ave,” Wiggins argued. “And when he gets back and sees how peaked you look, he’ll ’ave a fit.”
They all knew who “he” was.
“Wiggins, that’s Betsy’s personal business.” Mrs. Goodge cast an anxious glance in the maid’s direction.
“It’s alright, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy said. “Wiggins is just concerned, that’s all. Not to worry, though: I’ll eat plenty tonight.” She reached for the bowl of boiled potatoes that was next to the chops. “And it won’t be because I’m worried about what he’ll think, either. It’ll be because I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.” It would be a cold day in the pits of hell before she’d ever be concerned about him again, she told herself as she slapped a huge spoonful of potatoes onto her plate. Besides, one of the painful truths she’d learned this past six months was that time did heal all wounds. Two weeks ago, she’d realized she was looking forward to Christmas. The crowds of shoppers on High Street, the smell of Mrs. Goodge’s baking, the decorations in some of the more posh shops—she’d found herself liking all of it. She’d even smiled at a young man getting off the omnibus yesterday. Her heart was definitely on the mend, and what’s more, she’d never let it get broken like that again!
Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the cook. Both women were relieved to see Betsy showing a bit of appetite; in truth, the girl had gotten so thin that they were concerned for her health. The housekeeper put a slice of bread onto her own plate and reached for the butter pot. The maid had seemed better lately, but she still wasn’t her old self. Perhaps it would be best to avoid personal subjects and instead keep the conversation to Inspector Witherspoon’s police business.
That always cheered everyone up. “Constable Barnes mentioned that the Collinger case is going to trial next week.” She stuck her knife in the pot and scooped out a good chunk of creamy butter. “The inspector will be testifying, of course. I believe he’s a bit nervous about it.”
“Can’t think why,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “He’s testified lots of times, and he always gets it right.”
Witherspoon’s latest case, the apprehension of a man who’d murdered an elderly woman during the course of a robbery, had involved very little investigation on any of their parts. Harold Collinger, the killer, had left a trail of evidence so obvious that a two-year-old could have followed it. He’d not only been found with the victim’s belongings in his possession, but he’d bragged to his mates down at the pub about doing in the poor woman. Within two days after the discovery of the body, Collinger had been arrested and had confessed.
“Yes, but testifying still makes him a bit uncomfortable,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. Inspector Witherspoon had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to catch so many killers; it just seemed to happen. And he didn’t know why he’d suddenly become such a good detective. How could he, when his entire household went to so much trouble to make sure he was kept firmly in the dark? Gerald Witherspoon, one of nature’s true gentlemen, had a great deal of help on each and every one of his cases.
When he “caught a case,” as Wiggins so colorfully put it, his household leapt into ac
tion: they snooped around the crime scene, they found out what they could about the suspects, and most of all, they learned as much information as possible about the victim. A few trusted friends knew of their activities, but for the most part, they worked hard to be discreet. Each member of the household had their own area of expertise.
Mrs. Goodge was excellent at finding out background information, and she never even had to leave the house to do it; she had a steady stream of delivery boys, gas men, fruit vendors, and tinkers tramping through her kitchen. She plied them with treats and tea as she learned every morsel of gossip there was to be had about both victims and suspects. The elderly cook had served some of the richest families in all England, so if her local sources were no good, she used her connections to her former colleagues to find out what she needed to know.
Betsy was very good at getting facts out of shopkeepers, while Wiggins was quite handy at persuading maids or footmen to reveal all sorts of useful clues. Both of them had become rather skilled at following people as well.
“It wasn’t much of a case, was it?” Betsy sighed heavily. “We knew right away who’d done it.” She’d been bitterly disappointed when the case had been solved so quickly; she’d been hoping that having a good murder to sink her teeth into might prove a welcome distraction. But instead that stupid killer had confessed, and she’d had nothing to do but her household tasks. It wasn’t fair. It had been the first murder they’d had since he’d left, and it had turned out to be about as interesting as the boiled potatoes she was trying to choke down.
“Yes, well, it was one of the inspector’s less complex murders,” the housekeeper replied. She stifled a surge of irritation. Smythe, Betsy’s fiancé, had been gone for six months, and despite Betsy’s protests that she was fine, the girl could still slide into a good bout of self-pity. It was time for her to buck up and act like a grown woman. For goodness’ sake, there were people starving on these very streets of London, people who would love that food heaped on the girl’s plate. “Besides, I’m not sure any of us were up to a complicated murder.”
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