CHAPTER 10
“Despite all my big talk this mornin’, I ain’t found out one thing that’s goin’ to help us much,” Luty admitted. She watched the faces of the others around the table as she described her meeting with Hilda Ryker. Every one of them looked as disappointed as Luty felt. When she’d finished, she sat back, folded her hands in her lap, and shrugged. “Sorry I wasn’t able to learn anything we didn’t already know about Maria Farringdon.”
“You did your best, and you mustn’t feel badly. Perhaps Wiggins has found out something useful.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at him hopefully.
But he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Matter of fact, what I did ’ear makes me ’ope the lady isn’t the killer. Mrs. Farringdon is a bit of a soft’earted one. She hired a scullery maid back who’d gone off and ’ad a baby. The baby died, and as the girl ’ad no husband, Mrs. Farringdon took pity on her and let her come back to work.”
“That would never have happened in my day,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “Back then, if a girl got in trouble, she was let go and it was her hard luck. Thank goodness times have changed for the better.” Not only had times changed, but since she’d become a member of this household, the cook’s attitudes had changed as well.
Mrs. Jeffries agreed with the sentiment but realized they had now lost their last suspect. She’d been clinging to the belief that perhaps Maria Farringdon’s hatred of Whitfield was so fierce that it was the motive for the murder. “Mrs. Farringdon obviously isn’t a cruel, callous woman, or she’d have never hired the girl back.”
“Which means she probably isn’t mean enough to kill Whitfield over a few insults about her food or her background,” Smythe said.
“I agree. But that puts us very much at a loss here,” Mrs. Jeffries said morosely.
“Because we’re now completely out of any genuine suspects,” Hatchet said glumly.
“What about Henry Becker?” Wiggins wasn’t ready to give up yet. “With Whitfield dead, he’ll get a bigger dividend now.”
“He’s rich as sin already,” Luty reminded him. “He can’t spend what he’s got now, and he might be strange, but we’ve never heard of him actin’ nasty or violent to anyone.”
Mrs. Jeffries started to speak and then thought better of it. She looked down at the tabletop. Perhaps she should wait? Perhaps today the inspector would find the clue that pointed them in the right direction. She glanced up and caught Mrs. Goodge looking at her.
The cook’s features hardened a fraction. “I think Mrs. Jeffries has something to tell us,” she prompted.
Mrs. Jeffries was aware they were all staring at her, waiting for her to say something. She cleared her throat. “I do have something I need to say. You’ve all realized this case isn’t progressing very well at all.”
“You don’t have any idea who did it?” Wiggins asked plaintively.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t quite believe it.
“I’m positive,” she replied. “Inspector Witherspoon is at as much of an impasse in the case as we are. A few days ago he told me that if he didn’t make progress soon, he was going to ask Chief Inspector Barrows to assign another officer to it.”
They all started talking at once.
“That’s ridiculous,” Hatchet snapped. “Surely the chief inspector will give him more time.”
“Cor blimey, there’s plenty of time left to get it right,” Wiggins complained.
“He’s lost his confidence,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly.
“Oh, no, that’s awful. We can’t let him give up,” Betsy exclaimed.
Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand for silence. “I appreciate and agree with all your sentiments. But unfortunately I don’t think he’s going to be dissuaded from this course of action. Unless we can come up with more evidence by tomorrow, he’s going to see the chief.”
They discussed the matter at great length but could come up with no way of stopping the inspector from asking to be taken off the case. Nor did any of them have a clue as to who might have killed Whitfield. Finally they lapsed into silence, which was broken by the clock striking the hour.
“It’s five o’clock, madam,” Hatchet said to Luty. “We must get home so you’ll have time for a short rest before dinner. Lionel Burston and Lady Fenleigh are coming at eight.”
“Oh, nells bells, I’d forgotten all about that stupid dinner,” Luty muttered as she got to her feet. She looked at Mrs. Jeffries, her eyes hopeful. “Should we be here at our usual time tomorrow?”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure there was anything left for any of them to do. Yet just as she decided to tell them it was no use, she felt a tug at the back of her mind. It was only a wisp of an idea, and it was gone before she could grab it long enough to make sense of anything; but nonetheless it was real, it was there, she felt it. For the first time in this case, her own “inner eye” was opening. Or perhaps she was simply grasping at straws. “Yes, please. We’re not going to give up just yet. We’ve all day tomorrow to continue the hunt.”
“Good.” Luty beamed approvingly, and even Hatchet seemed satisfied as he helped her with her coat.
As soon as the two of them had gone, Mrs. Goodge went to her room to put on a clean apron, Wiggins took Fred for a short walk, and Mrs. Jeffries went upstairs to finish polishing the furniture in the inspector’s study.
Betsy was still at the table, staring straight ahead, her eyes unfocused and her shoulders relaxed. Smythe wasn’t sure this was the best time to broach the subject, but as it was the first time he’d been alone with her in days, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Can I talk to you?”
Betsy looked at him. “Someone’s bound to come back in a minute or two, so you’d better be quick about it.”
“Are we still engaged?” he blurted. That was what he needed to know; that was what had been haunting him since he’d returned. “You said you still loved me, but do you still want to marry me?”
She said nothing for a moment, just stared at him with an expression he couldn’t read. Finally she said, “Do you still want to marry me?”
“Of course I do,” he cried. “I want to marry you more than anything. You’ve got to tell me. Not knowin’ is tearin’ me apart. Are we still goin’ to be married?”
As Betsy had predicted, they heard footsteps coming toward the kitchen. “Yes, we’re still engaged,” she hissed as she got up and began to clear the table. “And if it’s all the same to you, we’ll keep this to ourselves until after this case is solved.”
“It might never be solved.” He got up and reached for the nearest dirty plates.
“Then we’ll talk about it after Christmas,” she replied. She picked up the sugar bowl and the jam pot and walked to the counter.
“Boxing Day, then. We’ll make our plans on the Feast of St. Stephen.” He followed after her.
“Feast of St. Stephen,” Mrs. Goodge repeated as she came into the room. “I’ve not heard Boxing Day called that in years.”
“It was on the notice board outside the church.” Smythe ignored Betsy’s warning look, put the plates down, grabbed her by the shoulders, and enveloped her in a hug. “We’ll sort everything out then.”
Mrs. Goodge beamed at them.
Upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries poured a dab of Adam’s Furniture Polish onto her rag and rubbed it on the top of the inspector’s desk. She moved her hand in a long circular motion, applying the polish evenly over the wood surface as her thoughts began to float free. What was it that had pushed at her earlier? It was an idea or a thought that had bubbled into awareness while they were discussing the case. She cast her mind back to the moment she’d felt the tiny nudge, it had been when . . . when . . . She shook her head. She couldn’t recall what was being said when it had happened. Drat.
She finished all the furniture in the study and had moved on to the drawing room when she heard the inspector coming up the front steps. Putting the rag down, she hurried out into the hall, arriving ju
st as Witherspoon stepped inside.
He didn’t look good. His face was paler than usual, his glasses had slid completely down his nose, and his bowler was askew. “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said politely. He took off his hat and hung it on the coat tree, then began pulling off his gloves.
“Good evening, sir,” she replied. “Have you made any progress today?”
He tucked his gloves in his overcoat pocket, shrugged it off, and handed it to her. “Not really. I spent the day going over all the statements and seeing if there is something I might have missed. But honestly, I didn’t see anything.”
“Don’t give up, sir. I’m sure you’ll find the solution soon,” she said. She hung up his coat. “Are you still going to ask the chief to assign it to someone else?”
“I must. Perhaps a fresh approach is what’s needed,” he said. “But I did have one bright moment this afternoon. I ran into Lady Cannonberry on Holland Park Road. She’s invited me to come early on Christmas day—you know, before the others arrive.”
The inspector was having Christmas dinner with Ruth Cannonberry and some of her relations. She was their neighbor and his special friend.
“That’s very nice, sir. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Would you like a sherry before your dinner?”
“Not tonight, Mrs. Jeffries. I’ll have my meal and then I think I’ll retire for the evening. I don’t like to complain, but reading all those statements and going over the postmortem report has given me a dreadful headache.”
In the darkness of her room, Mrs. Jeffries lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep. Fragments of conversation and bits of gossip from their many meetings played about in her head, jostling for position and trying to get her attention. She didn’t want to delude herself, but she was sure her own inner voice was trying to tell her something, trying to show her something that was right under her nose.
Mrs. Jeffries recalled a maid’s words that Wiggins had repeated. “He’d got one of them wine corkers from Germany. But he did make a terrible mess.” Now why had that sprung into her mind?
She rolled onto her side and let her mind drift where it would. Rosalind Murray had already made plans to sell the house. She wondered what the argument between Mrs. Murray and Whitfield had really been about. If she had truly wanted to be rid of him, then it couldn’t have been about his relationship with Mrs. Graham.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Whitfield was planning on taking Eliza Graham to Italy in the spring. But she’d already decided not to marry him. Had he suspected she was going to decline his proposal?
“Now it looks as if I’m going to another funeral come January.” Those words popped into her mind. Her eyes flew open and she frowned, trying to remember who’d made this statement.
It was Inspector Witherspoon, and he’d been repeating Henry Becker’s words. She’d lavished so much praise on the inspector about his ability to recall conversations and statements, and he now took great pride in repeating things word for word.
She flopped onto her back again and looked up at the ceiling. She heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves outside and the rattle of wheels as a hansom trundled past the house. Finally she drifted off into sleep.
“Last year I gave it to my next-door neighbor. But he’s dead now, so I was rather stuck with the stuff.” Mrs. Jeffries jerked away as those words rang in her ears. She squinted into the night, trying to think where she’d heard them. Then she remembered. Henry Becker. Once again the inspector had repeated Henry Becker’s own words to her.
She sat there for a moment, letting the idea that was forming in her mind strengthen and take shape. Ye gods, it was right under her nose.
She tossed the covers to one side and leapt out of bed. Ten minutes later, she was downstairs putting the kettle on to boil as she came up with a plan. By the time she heard Mrs. Goodge’s bedroom door open, she knew what had to be done.
“I thought I heard someone moving about in here. What are you doing up so early?” Mrs. Goodge stood at the doorway. She was still in her nightclothes. Samson was at her feet.
“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up for ages. I think I know what happened, but I’m not saying a word until I have a few things confirmed.”
“Let me put Samson out.” The cook continued down the hall.
Mrs. Jeffries went to the doorway and stuck her head out. “Do you know what a foxglove plant looks like?” she asked.
“Of course I know what it looks like. They grow all over the place.” Mrs. Goodge unlocked the top bolt on the back door and opened it, letting in a blast of frigid air. Samson gave a plaintive meow, but the cook used her foot to nudge him gently outside. “Go on now. Go out and do your business.”
“Would you know what a winter-dead one looked like?”
“I imagine it just looks like a stalk of weed,” Mrs. Goodge called over her shoulder as she closed the door.
“That’s what I thought as well.” Mrs. Jeffries moved to the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“Up to get Wiggins and Smythe. They’ll need to move quickly today.”
Mrs. Goodge started back to the kitchen and was midway down the hall when she heard soft thuds against the back door. “Oh, he couldn’t have done his business that quickly,” she muttered, but she retraced her steps and opened the door. Samson, a sheen of wet on his fur, shot through the back door and raced toward the kitchen.
By the time Mrs. Jeffries returned to the kitchen, the cook was nowhere to be seen, but the kettle was on the boil. She made the tea while she waited for the others. She put the sugar, milk, and jam on the table, then went into the wet larder for a pot of butter. She’d come back and was starting to slice a loaf of bread when Mrs. Goodge appeared. This time she was fully dressed.
“What’s all this about, then?” she demanded as she crossed the room to the worktable. “Here, I’ll do that.” She took the knife from the housekeeper and commandeered the spot in front of the breadboard. “I heard the others coming down the stairs. Young Wiggins makes enough noise to wake the dead. Let’s hope he doesn’t wake the inspector this early and have him down asking what we’re all doing. You finish making the tea.”
Wiggins, his hair on end and his shirttail flapping, came in first, followed by a yawning Smythe. Betsy trailed behind the two men.
“Sorry to get everyone up so early, but you must get out and on the hunt.” Mrs. Jeffries put the teapot on the table. “Everyone sit down and listen to what I have to say. Please don’t ask me any questions, because I could be dead wrong about my theory. But if I’m right, we’ve lots to do today.”
Mrs. Goodge put the plate of sliced bread next to the butter pot and sat down. “Should we send Wiggins for Luty and Hatchet? They’re not due here for another hour at the earliest.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Jeffries poured the tea into the cluster of mugs she’d put on the table earlier. “In any case, they can’t do their part until later today. But I need these three out and about early.” She finished pouring and waved her hand, indicating they were to help themselves.
No one asked any questions. They all knew the housekeeper wouldn’t tell them what she suspected until she was certain she was right. For the next few moments, the room was silent as they fixed their tea to their liking, buttered bread, and came fully awake.
“All right, Mrs. J, what is it ya need me to do?” Smythe asked.
She thought for a moment, trying to sort through the best means to confirm her suspicions. There were several ways one could go about this task. She wanted to be as efficient as possible. “Luckily, the inspector isn’t due to see the chief until tomorrow, so we’re not going to be too badly rushed. But I think I’d like you to go to the communal gardens at the Whitfield house. Find out if there’s foxglove growing anywhere in the garden. This time of year it might look like a weed, so perhaps it would be best if you found the gardener or the groundsman and asked him.”<
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“Is that it?” He didn’t want to point it out, but he needn’t have been awakened at the crack of dawn for such an errand, especially as they weren’t pressed for time.
“For the moment.” She turned to Wiggins. “Can you find that housemaid you spoke with before, the one that told you about going with Whitfield to deliver his bottles of port to his friends?”
“That’d be dead easy. She should still be at the Whitfield ’ouse.”
“Excellent. I want you to find out how many bottles of port were delivered and, more importantly, where.”
Wiggins glanced at the clock. “You want me to go now? Isn’t it a bit early?”
“That’s the best time to try to see the girl without the butler or housekeeper catching you,” Mrs. Goodge answered. “It’s the young girls that must get up early to light the fires and make the tea. The cook won’t come down until eight, so if you hurry, it ought to be just the younger girls up and about the kitchen.”
“What about Fred’s walkies? Usually the inspector likes me to take ’im out.”
“Don’t worry, lad—just be off with you,” the cook ordered. “We’ll take care of Fred’s walkies. The exercise will do me good.”
“Alright, alright, I’m goin’.” Wiggins took a quick sip of his tea, grabbed a slice of bread, smeared some butter on it, and rose to his feet. Smythe had got up as well, and the two of them went over to the coat tree.
“What about me?” Betsy asked.
“Your task is going to be quite difficult.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure she should even send her on what might turn out to be a fool’s errand. “I’m not certain you’ll be able to track down this information, but I think it’s important that you try. Last year one of Henry Becker’s neighbors died. I’ll need you to find out the person’s name and the circumstances of the death.”
Smythe was putting on his coat, but he stopped and started to say something. Betsy gave him a hard stare, and he clamped his mouth shut and started doing up his buttons. He grabbed his scarf and wound it around his neck. “Just be careful,” he said to her as he and Wiggins made for the back door.
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