Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “Elitist, sir?” The inspector had no idea what that could possibly mean.

  “We’re being accused of ignoring murders that don’t involve the rich or aristocratic.”

  The inspector was genuinely outraged. “That’s ridiculous, sir. We work hard to solve each and every murder regardless of who the victim might be.”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous, but the secretary is very upset about it.” He closed the file and handed it to Witherspoon. “This is the main file. There’s not much to it—as I said, Nivens made a bit of a mess of things. I’ve had the postmortem report, and what other few reports there were, sent to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. I’d appreciate it if you and Constable Barnes would start investigating immediately.”

  “What about our leave, sir?” Witherspoon faced him squarely.

  “You can go back on leave as soon as you’ve solved this one, Inspector.” Barrows glanced at Barnes. “Both of you. Now do get on with it. We’re counting on you to take care of this matter as soon as possible. Perhaps then we can all enjoy our Christmas holiday.”

  • • •

  Mrs. Jeffries met the inspector as he came in the front door. “Goodness, sir, you must have spent hours shopping. We were starting to get worried.” She watched his face as he handed her his parcel. He didn’t resemble the happy, carefree fellow who’d left earlier in the day to buy presents for a beloved godchild. He looked positively grim.

  Witherspoon swept off his bowler. “I’m afraid my shopping excursion was cut short. We got called to the Yard.”

  Mrs. Jeffries put the parcel on the table next to the umbrella stand and reached for his hat. “The Yard? But how did they know where to find you? You were shopping.”

  “I’d told Constable Barnes I planned to go to the toy shop on Regent Street.”

  “Gracious, sir, is something wrong?”

  He unbuttoned his overcoat and slipped it off. “You could say that.” He gave her the garment. “Chief Superintendent Barrows has canceled our leave. Constable Barnes and I now have to investigate a murder.”

  Mrs. Jeffries, who would usually be thrilled by such an announcement, had a decidedly different reaction this time. She was bitterly disappointed. “But … but you were promised this Christmas off.”

  “I know.” He sighed wearily and trudged down the hall toward his study. “And that’s not the worst of it. If Mrs. Goodge can hold dinner for a few more minutes, we’ll have a glass of sherry while I tell you the details.”

  Mrs. Jeffries dashed after him. “We’ve plenty of time, sir. Mrs. Goodge said dinner won’t be ready for another half hour.” She tried not to panic. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as awful as it seemed. But it was difficult to stay calm.

  Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force and there was a very good reason for his success. He had lots of help.

  His entire household and several of their special friends secretly investigated his cases. He had no idea that they used their considerable resources on his behalf; they chatted with witnesses, talked to servants, tracked down clues, followed suspects, and generally engaged in activities forbidden to the police. They fed him the information they learned through a variety of sources, the main ones being herself and Constable Barnes.

  When they reached his study, she went straight across the room to the liquor cabinet while he settled in his favorite chair.

  “Give us a generous pour,” he instructed as she pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry.

  He didn’t speak until she’d handed him his glass and took her spot across from him. “Now, sir, please tell me what is happening. From your expression, I can see you’re dreadfully upset.”

  He took a quick sip and then gave her a wan smile. “Don’t mind me, Mrs. Jeffries, but as usually happens, I’ve been given a murder. I wouldn’t mind, except that I was so looking forward to our Christmas party on Christmas Eve; all of the people who are so very dear to me would be here and we were going to have such a jolly time. As I was growing up, you see, it was just my mother and myself … I didn’t even really get to know my late aunt Euphemia until I was an adult. Don’t misunderstand, my mother did a wonderful job, but we always lived very modestly. Christmas was always a simple affair. It was just the two of us.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.” Mrs. Jeffries’ mind worked furiously. Even with a murder to solve, perhaps it wouldn’t be impossible to attend at least one of Dr. Furness’ lectures. There were three of them and the last one was in the evening; surely she’d be able to get to that one. Gracious, she’d already bought the subscription and had the tickets.

  He gave her another sad smile and took a quick gulp. “Of course you do. I’ll admit I’m very disappointed, but still, one must do one’s duty. I was also looking forward to going to the country to visit Lady Cannonberry’s friends. I was thrilled when she asked me to accompany her on the trip. The invitation seemed to herald a new and important step in our relationship.”

  “I thought so as well,” she murmured. She had to force herself to pay attention. “But you and Lady Cannonberry weren’t scheduled to leave for the country until Boxing Day, so perhaps you’ll still be able to go.”

  “I doubt that.” He grimaced. “The case files are a mess.”

  “A mess? What are you talking about, sir? Why would there be case files when you just got the murder?”

  “Because this murder happened six weeks ago.” He sighed again.

  “Six weeks?” If possible, her spirits sank even lower. “Who has been in charge of it since then?”

  “Inspector Nivens, apparently. When the victim was shot, he managed to convince Chief Superintendent Barrows the crime was a robbery. But now the view is that Gilhaney was deliberately murdered.”

  “And I take it he couldn’t solve it,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. She and the rest of the household loathed Nivens. He was jealous of Witherspoon, and for years he’d been trying to prove the inspector had “outside help” on his cases. The fact that it was true didn’t make the man any more likeable. He was a disgusting snob of a man, disliked by the rank-and-file officers serving beneath him and feared by his peers as well as his superiors. Nivens had aristocratic connections and used them mercilessly in dealing with others. But to the household’s way of thinking, Nivens’ worst fault was that he was simply a bad policeman. Justice meant nothing to him. “Oh dear, that will make it difficult, sir, but not impossible.”

  “True, it isn’t impossible, but on my other cases, I was able to use my methods. This time, I can’t examine the body at the scene of the crime and we’ve no witnesses to speak of.” He drained his glass and held it out to her. “I think I need another.”

  She got up and poured him another sherry. “Now, don’t despair, sir, it’s only the eighteenth and our party isn’t until Christmas Eve. That’s six days. You’ve solved other cases in less time than that.” But even as she said the words, she didn’t believe them.

  “I know, but I’m going to have to start from the beginning. You know I don’t like speaking ill of another police officer, but Inspector Nivens ought to be ashamed. He had six weeks and he’s done very little. He didn’t even take proper statements from the people at the dinner party. That’s where the victim was prior to being murdered.”

  “Who was the victim, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip from her glass. She might as well learn a few facts to share with the others tomorrow.

  “A man named Christopher Gilhaney. He’d come to London to join a firm of builders and as I said, right before he was murdered, he’d attended a dinner party in Chelsea. The other guests were the executive members of the firm and some large shareholders. Apparently, the dinner had ended rather early. At least that’s what we deduced from reading Nivens’ less-than-extensive notes on the case.”

  “He didn’t take proper statements, sir?”

  “No, his entire investigation is borderline incompetent.” Witherspoon shrugge
d. “Except, of course, for the ones that deal with his ‘sources’ when the case was considered a robbery. But there’s not much we can do about that aspect of the investigation. The hosts that night were Gordon and Abigail Chase. Mr. Chase is an employee and a board member of Walker and Company, Builders and Architects.”

  “And the other guests who were there, do you have their names?”

  Witherspoon nodded. “Yes, at least that gives us a place to start. Gilhaney had just moved to London from Manchester, so other than the people at the dinner party, we’ve no idea if he had any connections to anyone else.”

  “I take it Nivens didn’t inquire into the victim’s past in Manchester,” she guessed.

  “He did not. I’ve already sent off some telegrams to the Manchester police asking for their assistance, so perhaps we’ll learn something useful from that quarter.”

  “Mr. Gilhaney was shot?” she clarified.

  “The poor fellow had been shot through the heart three times.”

  “Three times?” she repeated. “And no one reported hearing a gunshot?”

  “It was Guy Fawkes Night,” he told her. “And loud noises were expected.”

  “Guy Fawkes Night,” she repeated, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps, sir, that’s the very reason the killer picked that night to do the deed.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Mrs. Jeffries waited until breakfast the next morning to tell Wiggins and Phyllis that they now had a murder case.

  “A murder!” Wiggins protested. He put down his fork. “Cor blimey, I knew this was goin’ to ’appen. Why do people keep killin’ each other durin’ the ’olidays? If they ’ad any decency, they’d wait till after the New Year to do their evil deeds.”

  “What about all our Christmas plans?” Phyllis asked. “Does this mean the inspector won’t be going to the country? Or that we’re not getting our party?”

  “At this point we don’t know what it means,” Mrs. Jeffries answered honestly. She’d spent a restless night and hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours of the morning.

  “But we all know what our duty is.” Mrs. Goodge looked at Phyllis and Wiggins. She’d found out about the murder early that morning. “So you two hurry and eat. We’ve much to do if we’re going to have our morning meeting.”

  “I’ll go to Luty’s.” The footman gave an exaggerated sigh. “But Hatchet’s not goin’ to be ’appy about this.”

  “None of us are pleased at this development.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her mug and took a sip.

  “Should I go to Betsy and Smythe’s?” Phyllis asked, her expression glum.

  “Yes, see if everyone can be here by ten o’clock,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  Wiggins finished first, pushed away from the table, and then looked at Phyllis. “Do ya want me to wait for you? We can walk together. The omnibus stop is just round the corner from Betsy and Smythe.”

  “But I need to help clear up,” she began, only to be interrupted by the cook.

  “I’ll take care of that. You two get going.”

  As soon as they’d left, Mrs. Goodge rose to her feet and began picking up the dirty plates. She glanced at the housekeeper, who was staring off into space. “Look, Hepzibah, these things happen and there’s naught we can do about it unless we decide we’re not going to help on this one.”

  Mrs. Jeffries caught herself. The cook used her Christian name only when they were alone or when she wanted to make a point. “I know and we’ll do our best—we always do—but Phyllis and Wiggins both seemed so upset. It’s so sad that they’re going to have to change all their plans.”

  “Nonsense,” the cook replied. “Phyllis’ plays are in the evening and Wiggins’ football games only take a few hours out of his day. Even if the worst happens and we’re still on the hunt come Christmas, I think the investigation can get along without the both of them for a few hours …” She broke off as they heard a faint knock at the back door.

  “Who on earth is that?” Mrs. Jeffries got up.

  “Constable Barnes, I imagine.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “He always comes to accompany the inspector when there is a murder case. There’s enough tea in the pot for us all. I’ll pour if you’ll go to the door.”

  But before going upstairs for the inspector, Constable Barnes always stopped in the kitchen to see the two women. Years earlier, he’d realized that Witherspoon had help on his cases and, being the clever copper that he was, it hadn’t taken long before he’d known exactly where that assistance originated. For a time, he’d held his tongue while he watched them and saw how competent and clever they were. They had another advantage over him; people who usually wouldn’t be caught dead cooperating with the police would talk to them.

  Mrs. Jeffries led Constable Barnes into the kitchen and a few minutes later, the three of them were settled around the kitchen table. Barnes spoke first. “I’m not sure we’re going to solve this one. The truth is, I’m not sure anyone can catch this killer. It’ll be a black mark on the inspector’s record.”

  “It would be a black mark on your record as well,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You don’t deserve that.”

  “Why do you think you won’t catch him or her?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Surely Inspector Nivens couldn’t have mucked it up that badly.”

  “He did his best.” Barnes put down his mug.

  Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think it’s possible that Nivens was deliberately incompetent? That once he had the case, he realized he’d not be able to solve it and that it would eventually come to Inspector Witherspoon, so he did as little as possible.”

  “So that he could make our inspector look bad.” Mrs. Goodge nodded eagerly. “That sounds like something Nivens would do.”

  Barnes looked amused. “He isn’t that clever and this isn’t the first case he’s bungled. Unfortunately, given his connections, it won’t be the last. But he’s not our problem now. This murder is six weeks old and we have very little to go on.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Where are you going to start?”

  “The only place we can, with the dinner party he attended on the night he died.” Barnes shrugged. “He was a guest at the home of Gordon and Abigail Chase; they live in a posh part of Chelsea. There were ten people altogether at the Chase home that night: the victim, of course, and the Chases, Theodore and Hazel Bruce—he’s the managing director of Walker and Company—Mrs. Bruce’s father, Newton Walker—he established the company—a man named Leon Webster …” He paused, his brow wrinkled in thought. “And two other ladies, Ann Holter and Florence Bruce—she’s Theodore Bruce’s sister. Both are shareholders in the company. The last person is one of the company directors, Robert Longworth.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I wrote out their addresses for you.” He handed her the list. “I know it’s not much, but it’s all we have.” He pointed at the last line on the bottom of the page. “That’s the address of the victim’s lodging house, but he’d only been there a few weeks before he was killed.”

  “The inspector said he came from Manchester,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and that he’s sent off telegrams asking for their assistance. Perhaps you’ll find something useful from that quarter.”

  Barnes looked skeptical. “I hope so, but I’m not holding my breath. We don’t know how long Gilhaney even worked in Manchester. He’s not originally from there; his origins are right here in London. He was raised in Clapham and possibly still has connections there, but Nivens didn’t bother sending anyone to his old neighborhood.”

  “Does the victim still have family there?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “We don’t know. All we know for sure is that his parents are dead. Nivens didn’t go to Gilhaney’s funeral, so we’ve no idea who might have shown up and been a useful witness.”

  “How did Gilhaney get the position at Walker and Company?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

  “We don’t know that, either.” He got up. “I’d best get
moving. We’re going to start taking statements this morning, but memories fade when so much time has passed so I’ve not much hope.”

  “Cheer up, Constable.” The cook got up as well. “You’re both very clever policemen and I’m certain you’ll do just fine. Who are you seeing first?”

  “The Chases, and then we’ll decide who to see next after we speak to them.”

  “Are you going to the murder scene?” Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet.

  “Not right away. What would be the point? The killer is long gone.” He nodded respectfully and then headed up the back stairs.

  Mrs. Goodge picked up the teapot and took it to the sink. “Are you going to go have a word with Ruth this morning?” she asked.

  “About the murder?” Mrs. Jeffries winced. “Gracious, I suppose I ought to—she’ll want to be here this afternoon for the meeting. I hate being the one to break the bad news to her. She was so looking forward to taking the inspector to meet her friends.”

  “And she can still do it.” The cook put the pot in the sink and bent down to pick up Samson’s food dish. Her big, old orange tabby had licked it clean. “We’ve plenty of time to get this one sorted out, Hepzibah. It’s only the nineteenth. Now, you put your cloak on and get across the garden to Ruth’s. I’m going to send off a few notes to some of my sources and then we’ll get cracking. This case isn’t going to solve itself.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to move to the coat tree. She grabbed her cloak and draped it over her shoulders but didn’t bother with her hat. “But I’m not so sure we’ve got much of a chance with this one.”

  • • •

  It might have been six weeks since her dinner guest was murdered after leaving her home, but there was nothing wrong with Abigail Chase’s memory, Witherspoon thought to himself. She’d been talking nonstop from the moment he and the constable had arrived.