“I know this is most distressing,” Witherspoon said politely. “But we must take as evidence all the food and drink that was served tonight.”
“For goodness’ sakes, the only one who died was Stephen,” Rosalind snapped. “So I hardly think he’s been poisoned.”
“Nevertheless, we can’t risk losing any evidence,” the inspector insisted. But what she said was true. No one else had died or even become ill. “Er, was there any one food or beverage that only Mr. Whitfield consumed?”
Rosalind exhaled, unclenched the hand that had been balled into a fist, and closed her eyes for a brief moment as she got herself under control. “He was the only one who drank the Bordeaux that Mrs. Farringdon brought. The bottle is in the dining room.” She turned and hurried to the door.
The two policemen were right behind her.
A constable standing at the dining table and pouring the fish soup into a jar stopped and looked up as they burst into the room.
“Carry on with what you were doing, Constable,” the inspector said kindly.
“Yes, sir.” He went back to pouring the soup.
“Here it is.” Rosalind picked up the Bordeaux from the silver tray on the sideboard and handed it to Witherspoon. “Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon brought this to Stephen as a Christmas gift. He insisted it be opened, but he was the only one who drank it. The rest of us had sherry for an aperitif and white wine with our dinner.”
Witherspoon noted that the bottle was three-quarters empty. “The Farringdons gave this to Mr. Whitfield tonight?”
Rosalind’s eyes widened as she realized the implication behind the question. “I’ve just said so, Inspector. But if you are implying that either of them had anything to do with Stephen’s death, you’re mistaken. Basil Farringdon and Stephen were at school together. They’ve known one another all their lives.”
“Our questions aren’t meant to implicate anyone,” Witherspoon replied. “We’re simply trying to ascertain the facts.” He was dreadfully tired and quite hungry. He and Ruth had only just started their meal when Barnes had come to fetch him. “Did any of the other guests bring Mr. Whitfield a present?”
“No. The Farringdons brought one only because Stephen took them a bottle of his special ruby port a few days ago. He imports a cask directly from the vineyard and corks it up himself.”
“Had he given a bottle of port to any of the other guests?” Barnes asked.
She thought for a moment. “I think he might have given one to Henry Becker. It’s a custom he started a few years ago, but he only did it for his old school friends.”
“I see,” Witherspoon murmured. He’d no idea whether this was useful information.
They could hear bumps and squeaks outside the door as a gurney was wheeled down the hallway.
The color drained out of Rosalind’s face. “Oh, dear God, this is dreadful. What are they going to do with Stephen?”
“They’re going to take him to a hospital and do a postmortem,” Witherspoon said gently. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t let it distress you, ma’am. But we must find out if Mr. Whitfield was poisoned and, if he was, if that poison was administered accidentally or on purpose.”
“Did Mr. Whitfield have any enemies?” Barnes asked. He thought he might as well start asking the obvious questions. Despite Witherspoon’s misgivings, Barnes knew enough about Dr. Bosworth to trust both the man’s medical expertise and the fellow’s instincts.
“He had no more enemies than anyone else.” She winced as the gurney’s wheels scraped hard against the stairs.
“What was his occupation?” Witherspoon asked, hoping to distract her from the thuds overhead as the gurney continued its journey to the dead man’s bedroom.
“He was an English gentleman,” she replied. “In other words, Inspector, he lived off his income and did very little . . .” She broke off and glanced up at the ceiling as the wheels squeaked to a halt in the room upstairs.
“He had no occupation, correct?” Witherspoon clarified. Drat, that meant he wouldn’t have business enemies.
“In his youth, he spent a few years running the family estate, but the estate was sold when he married my sister.” She turned her attention back to Witherspoon.
“I see.” The inspector desperately tried to think of more questions, but his mind had gone completely blank.
They heard a series of knocks and then a low thud from overhead. A moment later, the wheels began squeaking again as the gurney began the trip down.
Rosalind shuddered. “Inspector, is this going to take much longer?”
“No, ma’am, they are almost finished.”
They were bringing the body down the stairs. He could hear bumping and scraping against the banister. “I’m sure this evening has been horrible for you,” he said to her. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Stephen wasn’t a blood relative, but he was my brother-in-law and I have lived in his household for almost ten years. I’ve known him since we were children.” She looked past Witherspoon, in the direction of the front door.
They could hear the lads moving about in the foyer, opening the front door, and then the ever-present squeak of wheels. Witherspoon made a mental note to have a word with the duty sergeant and ask who was in charge of maintaining the equipment. They really must get that contraption oiled.
Rosalind closed her eyes briefly. “Is there anything else?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “Dr. Bosworth is doing the postmortem tonight, so we’ll be in touch tomorrow. If you’d like, I can ask the local constables to keep a special watch over the house.”
“That won’t be necessary, Inspector.” She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “I’m sure Stephen’s death will turn out to be a heart attack or some sort of accident. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go upstairs and lie down. This has been an exhausting ordeal.”
“Good night, Mrs. Murray. We’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible when we leave.”
“Good night, Inspector.” Rosalind Murray turned and went toward the stairway.
Witherspoon was reasonably sure that if the victim had been poisoned, it was probably through the wine. But they couldn’t be certain, so it took another hour to finish up in the kitchen. An enormous amount of food had been prepared for the dinner party, and finding suitable containers to carry it all off was impossible, so they had to send back to the station for an evidence box. As they left the house, Witherspoon instructed the local constable on patrol to keep an eye on the house.
“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as they turned in the direction of the Fulham Road.
“I’ve no idea what to think,” Witherspoon admitted. “Let’s hope this Dr. Bosworth knows his business.”
“Oh, I think we’re safe in that regard, sir,” Barnes said softly. He was well aware of Bosworth’s help on previous cases, just as he was aware that Witherspoon’s entire household had been assisting him from the very beginning. None of them had told him of their involvement; he’d figured it out on his own. “There’s a hansom, sir. I’ll just go wave it over.”
“What are we going to tell the inspector about Smythe?” Mrs. Goodge whispered as soon as Betsy had gone upstairs to make sure the heat was on in Smythe’s room.
“We’ll tell him the truth—that Smythe finished his business in Australia and came home because he wanted to get here before Christmas,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
When the coachman had left, they’d told Witherspoon that he’d been called away on urgent business. Witherspoon, being the decent man he was, had agreed that the coachman should have his position back when he returned to England. Not that Smythe needed the position—he didn’t. He was as rich as sin, but that, like so many other things in Mrs. Jeffries’ life, was a secret. Only she—and Betsy, of course—knew about his wealth. It was Smythe’s secret to keep, and he’d let the others know in his own good time.
“That’s a good idea. It’s always best to stay close to the truth if at all poss
ible.” Mrs. Goodge sank down onto her chair. “And Betsy’s being a right little madam about him coming back. Mind you, I’m not sure I blame her. Canceling all those wedding plans was so humiliating for the lass. But I’ve never seen her act so cold.”
“But she still loves him.” Mrs. Jeffries grinned. “That’s obvious.”
“How is it obvious?” Mrs. Goodge reached down to lift Samson, her huge orange tabby cat, onto her lap. Samson, as was his nature, glared at Mrs. Jeffries and then curled up in a ball on the cook’s lap. Wiggins had rescued both Fred and Samson at different times. Fred was exceedingly grateful to have a good home. Samson wasn’t. The only person he liked was the cook.
Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “If she didn’t love him, she’d have treated him like her long-lost brother. Instead she’s as cool as an autumn evening and treating him as casually as if he’d just been gone for an hour or two. That can only mean one thing; she’s going to forgive him, but she’s going to make him dance a bit before she’ll give him as much as a smile.”
Mrs. Goodge didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure about this? I’m the first to admit, I don’t know much about affairs of the heart. We both know that cooks take the ‘Mrs.’ as a courtesy title whether we’ve been married or not. I, for one, never had a husband and never wanted one, either. But you have. Did you ever do such a thing to your man?”
“Well, certainly not very often,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But even I, on occasion, had my little ways to get my own back. That’s all Betsy’s doing—getting a bit of her own back.”
“But it wasn’t Smythe’s fault that he had to go,” the cook protested. She petted Samson’s broad back, and he started to purr.
“No, and Betsy knows that,” the housekeeper replied. “But he could have taken her with him, and he didn’t.”
“He was goin’ to the bush.”
“Betsy told me she wouldn’t have cared. What hurt her the most was that he didn’t even ask her to go. He simply said he had a debt of honor, and out the door he went. She was the one who had to face all the neighbors and all our friends. She was the one who had to tell them the wedding had been ‘postponed,’ and then watch how everyone tried to pretend that was just fine when it was obvious they all believed she’d been jilted.”
“But, still, she’s been miserable without him,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out.
“And he without her, I’m sure. But this is something they must work out for themselves.” She got up and began to pace the room. Fred, who was keeping a wary eye on the cat, jumped up from his spot in front of the warm stove and began to pace alongside her.
Betsy, a sack of flour nestled in the crook of one arm and a bowl of brown eggs in the other, came back into the kitchen. “The sugar cone has gone hard as a rock,” she said as she made her way to the worktable near the sink. “But it should be fine if you let Wiggins have a go at it with the hammer.” She placed the eggs next to the slab of white marble that Mrs. Goodge used for baking, and put the flour down beside the bowl.
“Thank you, Betsy,” the cook said softly. Without even being asked, Betsy had brought Mrs. Goodge’s ingredients from the dry larder to the kitchen. The maid had done it because she knew it was hard for the cook to move about so easily when her rheumatism was acting up. Betsy understood that, now that they had a murder, Mrs. Goodge had to get her baking done early so she could feed her sources. The lass was too caring and kind, Mrs. Goodge thought sourly. It made it impossible to stay irritated at her!
“Should I make more tea?” Betsy asked. “We’ll want to stay up so we can hear all the details.”
“That’s a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “It’s almost midnight and no one is back yet. We may need to split up. I’ll take the inspector, and you two see what the lads have found out.”
Betsy nodded. “I’ll use the big pot. As cold as it is, everyone’s going to want something to warm themselves up.”
Everyone returned within minutes of one another. Smythe and Wiggins were coming through the back door just as Mrs. Jeffries heard the inspector come in the front. She grabbed a tray they had at the ready and headed up the stairs.
“Mrs. Jeffries, you shouldn’t have waited up,” Witherspoon said as he hung up his bowler hat. “It’s dreadfully late, and you must be exhausted.”
“Not as exhausted as you must be, sir,” she replied. “It’s so cold out tonight. I wanted to make sure you had something hot to warm you up. I thought perhaps you might be hungry, so Mrs. Goodge made some roast beef sandwiches as well. Shall we go into the drawing room?” She didn’t want him running up to bed before she had a chance to find out what he’d learned.
“Bless you both for being so thoughtful. I’m famished.” He slipped out of his overcoat and hung it on the peg under his hat. Witherspoon hadn’t been raised with wealth, so consequently he treated his servants like human beings and was exceedingly grateful when they did anything over and above their normal duties.
As they went down the hall to the drawing room, Mrs. Jeffries said, “I’ve some other news as well, sir. Smythe has returned.” She put the tray down on a table by the door and poured his tea.
“Smythe is back—that’s excellent news.” He sank into his favorite chair. “It’s been difficult for Betsy since he’s been gone. What a wonderful Christmas present that must be for her. I’m sure she’s delighted he’s finally home.”
“He took care of his business, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries put the inspector’s tea on the table next to him, picked up her own cup, and sat down on the settee.
“He’s a good man.” Witherspoon blew surreptitiously on the hot drink. “Imagine going all the way to Australia to help out an old friend who was in trouble. Well, I’m glad he’s back, to be sure. Let him know that as of tomorrow, he’s a member of the household again, and he’s to have his full wages for this month.”
“I’m sure he’ll be very pleased to hear that,” she replied. As she knew, Smythe donated half his salary to the poor box at St. John’s Church and the other half to an orphans’ home in the East End. She was certain they’d be happy he was back as well. “I do hope that Lady Cannonberry wasn’t too upset by your dinner being interrupted.”
He put down his tea and helped himself to a sandwich. “Considering we’d only just sat down to eat when Constable Barnes arrived, she was exceedingly gracious about the matter.” He took a quick bite of his food.
“I suppose it must have been sheer luck that the constable was at the station when the call came in,” she commented. “Usually he’s home in the evenings.”
“It was. He’d stayed late at the station to have a Christmas drink with one of his friends. His wife is out of town for a few days.” Witherspoon swallowed his food. “The doctor called to the scene when the victim took ill was familiar with my previous cases. He specifically sent the first constable who arrived back to the station to fetch me. Barnes and Constable Kerry were just going out for their drink when the lad reported back, so his evening was interrupted, too—not that Constable Barnes would ever complain, of course. This roast beef is wonderful.”
“Who was the doctor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked cautiously. She didn’t want to get her hopes up just yet.
“A Dr. Bosworth. He’s one of our police surgeons, but he’s not assigned to my district. He just happened to have rented rooms across from the victim’s house, so he was sent for when the poor man fell ill.” Witherspoon took another bite of his sandwich.
Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits soared. For once, they’d have almost direct access to evidence from the postmortem. She couldn’t believe their luck. “Your methods have become very well-known, sir. I’m sure Dr. Bosworth has heard a great deal about you.”
“He’s worked on one of my cases,” Witherspoon said. “But I can’t recall which one it was.”
He’d actually worked on virtually all of the inspector’s cases, but only one of them in an official capacity. “If this isn’t his district, is he the one doing the postmortem?” She held her brea
th.
“Indeed he is. He’s doing it tonight.” Witherspoon took another sip of tea.
“And he was the one that thought there might be foul play involved?”
“He’s fairly sure the fellow was poisoned.”
Mrs. Jeffries raised her eyebrows. “He was able to make a diagnosis so quickly?”
“It was something the victim said before he died that led the doctor to think so.” He told her the circumstances leading to Bosworth’s suspicions. “So you see, even if it turns out the man was poisoned, we’ve still no evidence it was murder. It could be accidental.”
“Even if it was foxglove that killed him?” she queried gently. She didn’t want the inspector clinging to false hope. She trusted Bosworth’s instincts. The good doctor had seen too many corpses not to have developed a heightened ability to know when something was wrong. This was a murder, not an accident.
Witherspoon sighed deeply. “I know I’m probably deluding myself, but it is Christmas, and you know what happens at this time of year, especially if the victim is a member of the upper class.”
“And I take it that the deceased is one of them?” She smiled sympathetically. She knew exactly what was bothering her inspector.
“Oh, yes—at least, he appears to be a wealthy man. The house is huge, and he has no occupation. According to his sister-in-law, he’s an English gentleman, and you know what that means.”
“They’ll put pressure on you to solve this case as soon as possible. They’ll want an arrest by Christmas,” she murmured.
He nodded in agreement. “There’s no real reason why this season should be any different from any other time of the year, but somehow it always is. Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and by tomorrow morning we’ll find out that the doctor was mistaken and poor Mr. Whitfield died of a perfectly natural heart attack or stroke.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 83
