“I’ve had time,” he interrupted. “And frankly, I’m no closer to a solution now than I ever was. But I’m dreadfully tired, Mrs. Jeffries. I really must retire. Can you ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk?”
She knew when to stop. “Certainly, sir. Sleep well.”
Later that night, when everyone in the household had gone to their beds, Mrs. Jeffries crept down to the kitchen. She put her lamp on the kitchen table and got a tin of silver polish and two cleaning rags from the bin under the sink. She put her supplies on the table, spread out yesterday’s Times, and put the polish on top of the pages. Going to the pine sideboard, she knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer.
Inside were three flat silver trays, each of them wrapped in soft gray flannel drawstring jackets. She grabbed the trays and heaved them out, groaning a little as she felt the strain on her knees. Putting the stack on the table next to the open newspaper, she slipped the first tray out of its jacket and positioned it next to the tin of polish. Then she sat down and picked up a rag.
Mrs. Jeffries knew she’d not be able to sleep, so she hadn’t even bothered to try. She’d decided to clean the trays for two very good reasons. Firstly, she hoped a dull, repetitious task would help her mind come up with some idea of how to solve this case; and secondly, Christmas would be here in a few days, and they needed the trays cleaned.
As she went about her task, she tried not to dwell on any details of the case. She wanted her thoughts to wander freely, moving haphazardly from one fact or bit of information to the next. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking.
She smeared a gob of polish over the top of the tray and reached for the other cloth. Rosalind Murray had been the strongest suspect, and now it looked as if she’d no motive at all. But there was still the matter of the house. With Whitfield dead, Mrs. Murray could finally get control of it. A house in that neighborhood and of that size was worth a huge amount of money. Perhaps Mrs. Murray’s plans had included selling the place and going off on her own. Yes, that made sense, especially if she was afraid that a new, relatively young wife might spur Whitfield on to a long and vigorous life.
Mrs. Jeffries rubbed the cloth along the top of the tray in long, even strokes. But would getting her hands on the family home be enough of a motive for Rosalind Murray? she wondered. That was the question.
“What on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Goodge asked softly.
Startled, Mrs. Jeffries dropped the cloth. “Gracious, Mrs. Goodge, you gave me a fright. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get started on the silver. We do like using it for Christmas.”
Mrs. Goodge came into the kitchen. Samson trailed at her heels. She wore a long gray wool robe and a pair of red carpet slippers. “You can’t sleep, can you? The case is keeping you awake.”
“No, I can’t. I don’t mind telling you that this one has got me baffled. What’s more, I think the inspector is ready to hand it off to someone else,” Mrs. Jeffries said. It felt good to confide in someone.
“We’ll not let that happen.” The cook slid into the seat next to Mrs. Jeffries, pushed her chair back, and then patted her lap. Samson jumped up, glared at Mrs. Jeffries, then curled into a ball and began to purr.
Mrs. Jeffries picked up the polishing cloth and continued her task. “I’m not sure we can stop it. Every time we have a meeting, I learn something that convinces me that no one had a motive for actually wanting the man dead.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Goodge stroked Samson’s broad back. “You’re only saying that because it’s late at night and you’re tired. You’ll feel differently in the morning.”
“No, I won’t. We’re running out of motives, Mrs. Goodge. After what we heard about Hugh Langdon, you must see that Eliza Graham didn’t have a motive. He wouldn’t have given a toss about gossip about her, and he wasn’t even willing to listen to Whitfield when he tried to discuss her.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t as sure of him as we think,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Perhaps Eliza Graham wasn’t . . . Oh, you’re right. She’s been seeing the man socially for months now, so she must have some idea of his character. Alright, I’ll admit that it appears as if she no longer has a motive, but we’ve plenty of others. I still think that Rosalind Murray might have done it. Despite what plans she may or may not have had, she might have hated him enough to kill him.”
“And risk being hung instead of getting on with her life?” Mrs. Jeffries put the rag to one side. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
“What about Henry Becker? There’s madness in his family. He might have done it. Perhaps he was tired of always losing at whist. That might be a sufficient motive for an insane person.”
“But we don’t know that he is insane. True, there’s a bit of lunacy in his family, but I expect if you looked hard enough at many families, you’d find evidence of strange or violent behavior. Becker had no motive. We’ve no evidence that he hated Whitfield, and he certainly doesn’t need the money from the tontine.”
“Basil Farringdon doesn’t seem to need the money, either,” Mrs. Goodge murmured, “and they are the only two left in the tontine.”
“Which means we can rule that out as a motive.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up the flannel jacket and slipped the tray inside.
The cook reached across and pulled the drawstring tight. “You’ve still got Maria Farringdon as a suspect. She did hate Whitfield.”
“But did she hate him enough to kill him?” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I don’t think so. Nor do I think that Hugh Langdon had a motive for murdering him, nor did any of Whitfield’s servants, either. The killer went to a great deal of trouble to commit this murder.”
“But all they had to do was chuck a few leaves into an open bottle of wine,” Mrs. Goodge retorted. “That doesn’t seem like much effort.”
“That part wasn’t. But the actual planning of the murder must have been thought out well in advance. This is the middle of winter, so they would have had to plan it months ago, when foxglove was abundant.”
“It’s not the sort of plant that people bother to grow in greenhouses,” Mrs. Goodge agreed.
“Whoever did it must have picked the leaves, dried them, and stored them somewhere for months before they decided to act.” She put the lid back on the tin of polish and slapped it into place. There was no point in trying to do the other trays. She’d not be able to concentrate, and she had a feeling that as long as she was in the kitchen, the cook would feel compelled to keep her company. Mrs. Goodge needed her rest. “I just don’t see any of our suspects having a motive strong enough to go to all that trouble.”
“Someone did,” the cook reminded her softly.
“I’ve thought and thought and thought about everything we’ve learned,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at the cook. “Frankly, I don’t see how any living person could have committed this murder.”
The next morning, Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits hadn’t brightened any, but she went to great pains to keep her thoughts from the others. They were all so eager to be out and about—on the hunt, so to speak.
“I thought I’d ’ave a go at talkin’ to a servant,” Wiggins said as he tucked into a fried egg.
“If you’re goin’ to the Whitfield house, be careful,” Mrs. Goodge warned. “I overheard the inspector mentionin’ to Constable Barnes that they were goin’ to go there this mornin’.”
“Maybe I’ll try the Farringdon house or Henry Becker’s servants,” Wiggins muttered.
“Where are you going, Betsy?” Smythe asked.
Betsy swallowed the bite of toast she’d popped into her mouth. “I haven’t been to Becker’s neighborhood, either. I thought I might talk to those local shopkeepers.”
“What are you goin’ to be doin’ today, Mrs. Jeffries?” Wiggins asked.
“I thought I’d give the drawing room a good clean,” she replied. She caught the cook’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, letting her know that though she was ready to give up, she wasn’t going to say
anything to discourage the others. “I find that doing boring, repetitive tasks helps me to think things through, and we’re at the point in this investigation where a good think is in order.”
But despite everyone’s best efforts when they met for their meeting that afternoon, none of them had anything new to report. It was the same the next day and the day after. Wiggins talked to half a dozen housemaids, footmen, and tweenies. He learned nothing. Betsy had chatted up every grocer’s clerk, fishmonger, and baker in three different neighborhoods, with equally dismal results, and Smythe had spent so much time in pubs that he declared the smell of beer actually made him half-sick.
Nor had Inspector Witherspoon done any better. He’d questioned the dinner party guests and the Whitfield servants a second time, but none of them had anything to add to their original statements.
But at the brief morning meeting on the fourth day, there was a glimmer of hope. “I know we seem to be hittin’ a dry spell, but my friend Hilda Ryker is back in town,” Luty announced. “She loves to gossip and always knows what’s what in London. I know I’ll have something for ya by this afternoon; I just know it.”
“I certainly hope so, madam,” Hatchet replied. “We’ve none of us found out anything these past few days, and Christmas is almost upon us.”
“That’s not true,” Mrs. Goodge corrected. “We did find out that Mrs. Murray’s late husband did leave her something valuable. That tea plantation he left her shares in has done very well the last few years.”
Inspector Witherspoon had found out that bit of information when he’d interviewed Rosalind Murray for the second time. She’d been quite candid about her plans. She was selling everything, including the house, and moving to Canada to start a new life.
“Let’s hope you’re very successful today,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Luty. “And I know the rest of you will find out lots of useful things as well.”
Mrs. Goodge waited till everyone had left, and then she turned to the housekeeper. “Are you going to tell them about the inspector, about what he wants to do?”
“I think I should, don’t you?”
“Yes. They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll get over it.” She sighed heavily. “Mind you, I do hate the idea of him giving up on a case. Are you sure he was serious?”
“He was deadly serious,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “When I was serving him his breakfast this morning, he made it quite clear that unless he finds another avenue to investigate, he’s going to ask Chief Inspector Barrows to give the case to someone else.”
“Did he say when he planned on doing this?” the cook asked. She didn’t like the idea of quitting, either. But unless they had a miracle, she didn’t see that there was much hope.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“That’s Christmas Eve.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Let’s hope that someone comes up with something useful. Otherwise we’ll have failed.”
“Of course I’m acquainted with Maria Farringdon.” Hilda Ryker said to Luty. “She’s a very nice woman, much smarter than her husband, but that’s only to be expected. Her family actually worked for what they’ve acquired. Basil Farringdon’s family, on the other hand, has managed to fritter away just about everything they ever had, and believe me, they had plenty. The Farringdons once owned a good share of Norfolk. His mother was a cousin to the duke.”
“You sure know a lot about ’em,” Luty commented. She was sitting in the drawing room of Hilda Ryker’s elegant town house on Ridley Square. Hilda and her husband, Neville Ryker, were old friends of Luty’s.
When the Rykers weren’t traveling, Hilda spent her whole life immersed in the London social whirl. If there was anything worth knowing about any of the guests who’d been at Whitfield’s dinner party on the night of the murder, she’d be the person to ask. Luty was determined to have something for their afternoon meeting. Mrs. Jeffries was doing her best to keep everyone’s spirits up, but they were all getting discouraged.
“Of course I do.” Hilda’s long face creased in a grin. “Gossip is one of my favorite activities. I know we’re never supposed to admit such a thing, but it’s true nonetheless. If you’re not interested in other people, you might as well be dead; that’s what I always say.” She cocked her head to one side and stared at Luty speculatively. “Why are you so interested in the Farringdons? They can’t possibly be friends of yours. He’s a bore, and she’s far too conventional to appreciate you.”
Luty wasn’t sure whether she was being complimented or insulted, but she found the comment funny nonetheless. She laughed. “I’m not. I just happened to overhear that they were at the dinner party where that Whitfield fellow got murdered. I was just curious; that’s all.”
“You’re always curious about murder.” Hilda poured another cup of tea from the silver pot on the trolley next to her chair.
Luty held her breath. She hadn’t expected Hilda to remember that Luty had come around once before, asking questions about the murder of Harrison Nye, one of their previous cases. She started to mutter something inane, but before she could get the words out, Hilda continued talking.
“I expect it’s because you’re friends with that police inspector. I find murder fascinating as well, certainly far more exciting than conventional gossip.” Hilda reached for the sugar tongs and delicately placed a lump into her tea. “Would you care for another cup?”
“No, thanks. I’m not finished with this one yet.”
“But as to Maria Farringdon, I do hope she’s not the murderer.” Hilda said. “Despite her being a stickler for convention, I quite like her. She’s very social, so I see her quite frequently. We always have a nice chat when we run into one another. But, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her since Lady Emmerson’s party last September. Of course Neville and I have been gone quite a bit since then. Neville does so love to travel, but frankly, I always miss London when we’re gone. Foreigners, especially the French, can be so difficult.”
“You said she’s smart.” Luty didn’t want Hilda bringing up her husband. Neville Ryker was Hilda’s favorite subject, and once his name was uttered, getting her to talk about anything else was almost impossible.
“She is,” Hilda replied. “Before she married Basil Farringdon, she helped run her family’s business.”
Luty wasn’t sure how much to press, but on the other hand she didn’t want the woman shutting up, either. Right now she needed all the information she could get. She started to ask another question, but Hilda hadn’t finished.
“And she’s observant as well . . .” Hilda’s voice trailed off and her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, I’ve just realized something. It was Stephen Whitfield that Maria was talking about when she told me about the cheese incident. Do you think I ought to mention it to your inspector friend? Oh dear, I do hope not. Neville wouldn’t like me actually talking to a policeman, even one as respectable as your Inspector Witherspoon.”
“Why don’t you tell me about this here . . . er . . . uh . . . cheese incident? If it’s something that ought to be passed on, I’ll mention it to him,” Luty suggested. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Maybe their luck was changing. “That way, you won’t go gettin’ Neville upset, but you’ll have done your part in seein’ that justice is served.”
Hilda looked doubtful. “It probably means nothing. I’d have never thought of it if we’d not started talking about Maria Farringdon.”
“Well, what was it?” Luty urged. “Go ahead—you can tell me.”
“I’ve only just realized it was Stephen Whitfield that Maria was staring at as she was telling me about it. I knew who he was, of course. Despite his age, and his being a widower, he was considered quite an eligible catch.”
“Go on,” Luty pressed. “Tell me what happened.” She glanced at the ornate baroque clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was twenty till four. If she could ever get this woman talking sense, she just might make it back to Upper Edmonton Gardens before the meeting ended. “I’m a good liste
ner.”
“I feel so silly. It was such a minor incident, and I think I’ve made too much of it.” Hilda smiled weakly.
“Tell me anyway,” Luty ordered. She was tired of pussy-footing around.
“All right, if you insist. As I said, it was in September. Neville and I were getting ready to leave. It had been quite a tedious party, really. Not at all amusing. Neville sent for our footman and then went off to get my wrap. Suddenly Maria Farringdon came up and stood next to me. I’d not seen her that evening, so we started to chat—as I said, she’s an interesting woman. We both saw Stephen Whitfield across the room. He was speaking to our hostess, and his expression was, well, very earnest if you know what I mean.”
Luty wasn’t certain she understood, but she didn’t want to interrupt.
“He must have been quite rude to Mrs. Farringdon that day,” Hilda continued thoughtfully. “She was glaring at him, and then she said, ‘He’s trying to recover from having made a fool of himself.’ ”
“You actually heard her say those words?” Luty confirmed.
“Indeed I did.” Hilda nodded. “I asked her what she meant, and she turned, looked at me, and laughed. Then she said, ‘He might find it amusing to make fun of my champagne cups, but the man obviously can’t taste a thing. I just overheard him commending Lady Emmerson on the lovely Stilton she’d had served. Stupid fool. Lady Emmerson won’t forgive that faux pas for a good long while.’ I don’t like cheese, so I had no idea what she was going on about, and I asked her what she meant. She laughed again and said that it hadn’t been a Stilton that was served but a Wensleydale. Apparently our hostess had sent all the way to Somerset for the Wensleydale and was annoyed that it wasn’t fully appreciated.”
Luty struggled to keep from showing her disappointment. This gossip didn’t help one whit! They already knew that Maria Farringdon disliked Whitfield. Blast—this had been Luty’s last hope. She had nothing to take back to the others.
She was beginning to think they were never going to solve this case.
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 99
