“Excellent.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced toward the window over the sink. Her sharp ears had picked up the sound of a hansom stopping out front. “That might be the inspector.”
Before she could complete the sentence, the others were on the move and getting up. Hatchet grabbed Luty’s cloak from the back of her chair and draped it across her shoulders. “We’ll stop in tomorrow morning to find out what you’ve learned from the inspector. Put on your gloves, madam,” he ordered as he shoved her toward the back door. “It’s cold outside.”
Luty grinned and waved as she disappeared down the hallway. Betsy was right on their heels, but she veered off into the dry larder. Wiggins went up the back stairs to finish polishing the sconces on the second-floor landing, and Smythe muttered that he wanted to make a quick trip to Howard’s to check on Bow and Arrow.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook. “How long will it be before the inspector’s dinner is ready to be served?”
“You’ve a good hour.” Mrs. Goodge grinned. “It’ll take that long for the pudding to finish. There’s plenty of time for you to find out everything he’s done today.”
CHAPTER 5
Mrs. Jeffries spent the following morning sorting the contents of the upstairs linen closet. She’d learned a great deal while the inspector had eaten his dinner, and now she needed to think about everything he’d told her. Sometimes keeping her hands busy helped to free up her mind. She’d shared the information with the others this morning during their brief meeting, and everyone except for Mrs. Goodge had gone off to hunt for clues.
Mrs. Jeffries pulled a stack of sheets out of the closet and laid them on the top of the old tea trolley she used for household tasks. This case was still very much a puzzle. From what she’d heard from the inspector, Basil and Maria Farringdon could become suspects, but so far they’d no motive for wanting Whitfield dead. She leaned down and pulled her dusting rag from the second shelf of the trolley, straightened up, and swept the cloth around the inside of the cupboard. She paused as she remembered a tidbit she’d heard from the inspector. Maria Farringdon had been insulted by Whitfield about her champagne cups. But that was hardly a motive for murder, unless the killer was completely unbalanced. Thus far, they’d no evidence that Maria Farringdon was insane.
Rosalind Murray was still very much in the running as a suspect, since she’d had a screaming argument with Whitfield. But as for what it had been about—well, they were still in the dark over that issue. Experience had shown Mrs. Jeffries that information obtained by eavesdropping through heavy doors could easily be misinterpreted. Mrs. Jeffries grunted as she stretched to reach the far corner of the shelf with her cloth.
What about Eliza Graham? Where did she fit into this strange story? On the surface, it appeared that she was now pushing Mrs. Murray aside in Whitfield’s affections. Perhaps that might be another reason for taking a second look at Rosalind Murray. The old adages often proved true: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But then again, Mrs. Graham had brought Hugh Langford with her to dinner that night. Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what bearing that might have on the case. Perhaps it meant nothing, and Langford simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Such occurrences happened frequently. Or perhaps there was more to his being there than it appeared.
She stepped back and surveyed the inside of the dark cupboard as best she could. It would do. She laid the rag down and put the sheets back into the closet. Reaching into the bowl of dewberry wood chips on the top of the trolley, she picked up a handful and tossed them onto the stack of sheets.
She moved to the next shelf and pulled out the pillowcases.
She glanced at the bowl of dewberry chips. There were only half a dozen left. Betsy had told her that this was the last of them. She frowned as she thought of the maid. Betsy was still keeping her distance from Smythe. At breakfast this morning, she’d spoken barely two words to him. Mrs. Jeffries wondered just how much of that sort of behavior he was going to tolerate.
Smythe loved the girl dearly, but he was a proud man. At some point he was going to get tired of waiting for her to forgive him. She hoped that Betsy would come to her senses soon. Smythe’s decision to go, honorable and noble as it had been, had hurt her deeply. But he was back now, and that which had been broken could be mended. The human heart was far more malleable than most people realized. Betsy would get over this, and if she didn’t, she’d lose a very good man. Men like Smythe didn’t grow on trees. Mrs. Jeffries wondered if it might be wise to drop a hint or two in Betsy’s direction; then she realized it was really none of her business. The two of them had to work this out for themselves. She sighed heavily. She knew that there was nothing certain in this life but change; yet the thought of Smythe’s leaving permanently and their little band’s being broken up prematurely filled her with despair. That was one change that didn’t have to happen if Smythe and Betsy would sit down like adults and talk to each other.
She finished the dusting, replaced the pillowcases, and tossed in the last of the wood chips. Mrs. Jeffries took off her apron, draped it over the trolley, and then pushed the trolley into the spare room at the end of the hallway. The house was in good order. It was time for her to get out and about.
Mr. Henry Becker lived in a six-story brick house on a short road off the Marylebone High Street. A tall, austere butler opened the door and immediately ushered them inside. “Mr. Becker has been expecting you,” the butler said as he led them to the drawing room. “He’d like you to make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Witherspoon raised his eyebrows. “That’s a surprise,” he said as soon as the servant had left.
“It is indeed, sir. People of this class usually behave as if they’re doing us a favor by even opening the door.” Barnes glanced around the opulently furnished room. The ceiling was a good twelve feet high, with an enormous crystal chandelier smack in the middle. A grand piano was in one corner, and a gold gilt harp stood next to it. Gold brocade curtains hung from the three tall windows, and the floor was covered with a green and gold fleur-de-lys-patterned carpet. The same pattern was duplicated in the white and gold wallpaper. Vases of ivy and holly stood on top of all the cabinets and tabletops. Evergreen boughs tied with huge red velvet ribbons lay across the top of the mantelpiece, and tall silver candlesticks, also festooned with red ribbons, stood on each end. “Mr. Becker didn’t stint himself on his Christmas decorations.”
“Indeed he didn’t. The gentleman also appears to enjoy bright colors,” Witherspoon murmured as he looked at the Empire-style furniture upholstered in silver, gray, and gold brocade.
The door opened and Henry Becker hurried into the room, a welcoming smile on his face. “Oh, good, you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.” He nodded politely at Witherspoon and Barnes. “I told my man to have you make yourselves comfortable. Do please take a seat. Would either of you care for tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee?” He gestured toward the sofa, yanked on the bellpull by the door, and then plopped down on a tall wingback chair.
“Thank you, tea would be very nice,” Witherspoon replied. He and Barnes sat down. He waited until the constable had taken out his notebook before he started to speak. “I appreciate your seeing us, Mr. Becker. I know a visit from the police, especially at this time of the year, isn’t very pleasant.”
“Nonsense. I find it exciting. I’ve been looking forward to it.” Becker turned his head as his butler stepped into the room. “Bring us some tea, please.” As soon as the servant left, he turned his attention back to the two policemen. “I must tell you, I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come and see me. I’d actually thought perhaps I ought to go alone and see you chaps, but then you turned up, so all is well.”
Witherspoon had never encountered such an eager witness. The fellow was obviously rich, and at first glance he appeared quite ordinary: average height, darkish hair with a good deal of gray in it, and very average features. But his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, a
nd he’d smiled almost continuously since he’d entered the room.
Perhaps Mr. Becker smiled a bit too much.
The inspector stared at him for a moment before he replied. “I’m sorry if it appeared we weren’t interested in your statement, Mr. Becker, but we had to wait for the results of the postmortem to confirm that a crime had actually been committed.”
Becker’s smile faded, and he pursed his lips. “Yes, I suppose you do have to wait for official confirmation of some sort, don’t you?”
“We do, sir.” The inspector eased back in his seat.
“I quite understand, Inspector. Of course you had to find out if old Stephen had been poisoned or simply keeled over from natural causes.” Becker sighed. “I suppose I ought to be careful in what I say. Stephen wasn’t really that old; we were the same age. We were at school together. Still, I shouldn’t be surprised that it happened.”
“Why weren’t you surprised, sir?” Barnes asked.
Becker smiled again, though this time his expression was wistful, not eager. “We always lose schoolmates at this time of the year, so I suppose I’ve been deluding myself and I really am getting old. I just don’t feel any differently than I did when I was a lad.”
“That’s most unfortunate, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “Losing old friends is always painful, especially at this festive season.”
“It most certainly is.” Becker broke off as the butler returned with their tea. “Put it down on the table, Manley. I’ll pour.”
“Yes, sir.” The servant put the tray down next to Becker and then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him as he left the room.
Becker picked up the silver pot and poured tea into the three cups. “Do you take sugar, Inspector?”
“Two lumps, please.”
“And you, Constable?”
“Three lumps, sir,” Barnes replied.
“As I was saying”—Becker handed Witherspoon his tea—“Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year, but now it looks as if I’m going to another funeral come January.” He handed Barnes his tea. “Luckily, it’s so cold out that one doesn’t have to worry about decomposition, does one?”
The inspector glanced at Barnes, and the constable gave a barely perceptible shrug. He, too, thought Becker’s conversation more than a little strange.
“They never have the funerals until after the holidays, so I suppose they must store the corpses someplace,” Becker continued. “Do they use cellars or some sort of cold storage?”
“I’m not certain,” Witherspoon replied.
“There are several places where bodies are kept,” Barnes said. “Now that Mr. Whitfield’s postmortem is completed, the body will be released to a funeral parlor or an undertaker’s establishment. His family will make that decision.”
“He didn’t really have any family except for Rosalind, and she’s only a sister-in-law. Does that count?” Becker asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” Witherspoon replied. “I imagine his solicitor has all the particulars about his burial.”
“I doubt it. I expect Stephen thought he’d live forever,” Becker said cheerfully. “His own death is the sort of subject he wouldn’t like to think about. Poor Rosalind will probably get stuck making the arrangements.”
“Er, uh, Mr. Becker, you said you were at school with Mr. Whitfield,” Witherspoon began.
“Right, we were at Eton together. Whitfield and I were in the same house.” Becker grinned broadly. “Stephen didn’t like school very much, but, then, neither did I.”
“Was Basil Farringdon also in your house?” The inspector took a sip of his tea.
“He was. He was quite good at sports, as I recall.”
“And you’ve all been friends ever since?” Barnes asked. He studied Becker closely, wondering whether the man had a firm grip on all his faculties. In his long years as a policeman, he’d sometimes arrested people who had obviously committed the crime in question, but he’d sensed that, though those people appeared rational, they really weren’t. There were simply some poor souls who completely lost their hold on this world and slipped into another one. But Barnes’ job was to keep the peace, and though he often felt very sorry for these unfortunate folk, they couldn’t be allowed to run around engaging in murder or mayhem. He thought that Becker had the same sort of look in his eyes, almost as if he wasn’t quite all there. Still, the man was rich as sin and probably had a ruddy platoon of lawyers at his beck and call, so they’d better take his statement seriously.
“More or less,” Becker answered. “We lost touch for a few years when I was traveling, but once I was back in the country, we renewed our acquaintance.” He took a sip of his tea. “Actually, now that I think of it, we lost touch for longer than that. I was back in London for ages before I ran into Stephen. Yes, that’s right—his wife had just died. We happened to come across each other at a dinner party. I suppose that was when we sort of reacquainted ourselves.”
“How long ago was this?” Witherspoon took another sip of tea. It really was excellent.
Becker thought for a moment. “Let me see. His wife died about ten or eleven years ago—yes, that’s right.” He gave a short bark of a laugh. “Shortly after that, Rosalind moved in to be his housekeeper. That set a few tongues wagging, I can tell you.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” Witherspoon replied. He found this all very interesting, but as it had happened more than a decade ago, he didn’t see how old gossip could have any relevance to who might have wanted to murder Whitfield now. “What time did you arrive at the Whitfield house the night of the death?”
“A few minutes past seven,” Becker replied. “My hansom pulled up just as the Farringdons were going inside.”
“And what time was dinner served?” Barnes asked. They already had that information, but he wanted to confirm as much of Basil Farringdon’s statement as possible.
“Eight o’clock. We had drinks first, and then Stephen ushered us into the morning room to have a look at his Christmas tree. It was rather lovely.” He broke off and looked around the room. “I’m thinking of having one here next year. I think that corner over by the fireplace would be perfect. Mind you, one does need a footman on duty to make sure the candles don’t burn the house down, but we’ve plenty of footmen here and most of them don’t appear to be doing much of anything.”
“Yes, I’m sure that would be just the right spot for it,” the inspector murmured. “Er, uh, what happened then?”
Becker dragged his gaze away from the proposed spot for next year’s Christmas tree and looked at the two policemen. “What happened when?”
“When you were in the morning room looking at the tree,” Witherspoon prompted. “What happened at that point in the evening?”
Becker looked confused. “We all stood around and chatted and admired Stephen’s tree.”
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear.” Witherspoon smiled grimly. “What we need to know is the sequence of events throughout the evening. Could you describe everything that happened from the time you arrived until the moment Mr. Whitfield collapsed?”
Becker’s expression brightened. “Of course, of course, that’s precisely what you’d need to know. Now give me a moment to think, Inspector. I do want to get this right.”
They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes while Becker gathered his thoughts. Finally he said, “I came in just after the Farringdons, and I must admit I was a bit annoyed.”
“Why was that, sir?” Barnes asked. He still couldn’t decide whether Becker was just a lonely man who took any and all opportunities to chat, or whether he was a tad unbalanced.
“They’d brought a gift and I hadn’t,” he admitted. “It was slightly awkward for a few minutes. Stephen was waving about this bottle of Bordeaux, telling me they’d brought it for him, while I stood there empty-handed. Stephen had given me one of his bottles of port. Dreadful stuff—I can’t abide it—but I could hardly refuse to take it. Last year I gave it to my next-do
or neighbor. But he’s dead now, so I am rather stuck with the stuff. I suppose it’ll sit in my wine cellar till I give it to one of my servants or find some other poor soul to foist it on.”
Wiggins dropped to his knee and pretended to tie his shoe. He was directly across the road from the Farringdon house and he wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak. He kept his eye on the staircase to the left of the front door—the stairs leading down to the kitchen, the ones the servants used.
“How long does it take to tie a bloomin’ shoelace? Get a move on. You’re blocking the pavement,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
He leapt up and whirled about, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged woman carrying a shopping basket over her arm. “Sorry, ma’am.” He doffed his cap respectfully and moved out of her way. “There was a knot in the lace.”
She continued onward, but her harsh features relaxed a bit as she passed him. “No harm done, lad.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” He hurried after her. “But I’m lookin’ for a family named Farringdon. Do you know them?”
“They live just over there.” She pointed to the house he’d been watching, and kept walking. “But they’re not lookin’ for staff.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked. “I heard they’ve just lost two footmen, and I’ve references.”
“They haven’t lost any footmen,” she said, slowing her footsteps and turning to look at him. “And I ought to know. I’m well acquainted with their housekeeper.”
Wiggins desperately tried to think of a way to keep this woman talking, but as she wasn’t a young girl he could flirt with or a young lad he could lure to a teahouse with the promise of a sweet bun, he wasn’t certain what to do. “I guess my friend was wrong, then,” he finally said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, lad. It was no trouble,” she replied as she continued walking. “You might try at the Addison house. They live just around the corner at number seven Connaught Square. No, don’t bother goin’ there—they get their staff from a domestic agency. Are you with an agency?”
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