Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  He sat across from her in an elegantly furnished drawing room. The three tall windows facing the garden were draped by turquoise and pink curtains topped with intricately intertwined valances and tied back with silver cording. A large blue and cream rug patterned with silver fleur-de-lis covered the floor, and the French Empire–style furniture draped with pale-blue-and-silver-striped satin was lovely to look at but very uncomfortable. Witherspoon shifted his weight slightly and glanced at Barnes. The constable was sitting in an armchair. He’d planted one of his feet up against a heavy cabinet, probably to keep from sliding off the slippery material. He had his little brown notebook at the ready.

  “Yes, I was sorry Mr. Gilhaney was killed—I am, after all, a decent Christian woman—but I must be honest, that awful man ruined my Bonfire Night party,” Abigail Chase declared. She was a plump, attractive woman with a few strands of gray in her brown hair, a lovely ivory complexion, and dark brown eyes that flashed angrily with every word out of her mouth.

  “Exactly how did he ruin your party?” Witherspoon asked.

  “He spent the entire evening insulting everyone. He started the moment he walked into the house. Of course, he wasn’t overt about it, but he managed to imply something dreadful about each and every one of my dinner guests.” She gave a delicate, ladylike snort. “It was almost as if he’d prepared a script for the evening.”

  “Could you be more specific, Mrs. Chase?”

  “Well, I can’t remember every word he said, but it started almost as soon as he entered the drawing room. After the pleasantries were observed, Mr. Gilhaney began to make very odd remarks.” She frowned. “I wish I could recall exactly what he said … well, I can’t, so I’ll just have to do my best.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Witherspoon nodded in encouragement. “We understand it’s been six weeks and we don’t expect you to give a verbatim accounting of the evening.”

  “Gilhaney started with Leon Webster. He’s an old friend of my husband as well as a board member at Walker’s—or is he a shareholder?” She tapped her finger against her chin. “I don’t suppose it matters in this regard. Gilhaney asked Leon how he was enjoying his current position—he works for his family’s company, Webster’s Metals. Leon looked a bit embarrassed, but said that he enjoyed his work.”

  Witherspoon interrupted. “Why would Mr. Webster look embarrassed?”

  “He shouldn’t have, but men are sensitive about these things. Leon had some health problems last year and had to step down as the managing director.”

  “So he no longer works at his family firm?”

  “He still works there, but he’s really no more than a clerk. Gilhaney seemed to take great pleasure in pointing that out to everyone. Yet, Leon didn’t seem to get really upset until Gilhaney started making comments about Leon’s family.”

  “What kind of comments?” Barnes asked.

  “As I said before, very odd ones. Gilhaney went on and on about the sanctity of family ties and how they could protect one in a cold, heartless world. Poor Leon turned absolutely white. I swear, he’d have left right then if my husband hadn’t stepped in and changed the subject. But Gilhaney didn’t stop there. Before we’d even finished the second course, he’d managed to insult half my guests. He implied that Ann Holter had been left at the altar years earlier, that the Bruces loathed one another, and that Theodore Bruce had only married Hazel so he could run Walker and Company. I can’t recall what else he said, but before dessert was served, he’d insulted nearly everyone, except for Newton Walker, and of course, that’s to be expected.”

  “Why didn’t he insult him?” Witherspoon would sort out who was who later.

  “Because Newton had just hired Gilhaney, that’s why. He’d given the man carte blanche over the company finances.”

  • • •

  Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were the first to arrive for the meeting. Luty, an elderly American with a generous heart, a love of flashy clothes, and almost as much money as the Queen, had noticed the household asking questions on one of their very early cases. As smart as she was kindhearted, she’d come to them with a problem of her own and since then had insisted on helping. Her resources were substantial; she knew every banker in London, had a half dozen law firms at her beck and call, and had the knack of getting people to confide in her. Additionally, she was equally at home dining with a street lad or an aristocrat. Hatchet, her butler, was a tall, white-haired man with the bearing of an admiral and a number of resources of his own.

  The others arrived shortly afterward and Mrs. Jeffries waited till everyone was at their usual spot before she spoke. “I’m sorry to get everyone here on such short notice, but I had no choice. Not if we want to get this case solved before Christmas. Unfortunately, we’re at a disadvantage because the murder was done six weeks ago, on Bonfire Night.”

  “This just gets better and better,” Hatchet muttered. “Six weeks. The killer is probably long gone.”

  Mrs. Jeffries ignored him as she surveyed the faces around the table, but she could tell by their expressions that most of the others agreed with him. Hatchet was frowning, Betsy and Smythe both looked irritated, Phyllis’ mouth was set in a flat, grim line, and Wiggins was sulking like a three-year-old. The only exceptions were Luty, who was holding Amanda on her lap and playing patty-cake and who looked downright cheerful, and Mrs. Goodge, who, while not at the table, smiled enthusiastically as she put a cup of tea in front of the housekeeper before taking her own seat.

  “If we get it solved,” Wiggins muttered.

  Mrs. Jeffries ignored him and kept on speaking. “Ruth won’t be able to join us. She had a prior engagement but she’ll be here for our afternoon meeting.”

  “It might be a waste of ’er time.” Smythe nodded his thanks as the cook handed him a mug. “I doubt we’ll learn much today.”

  “Now, don’t say that, Smythe,” Mrs. Goodge said as she poured Betsy a cup of tea. “There’s no reason we’ll not make a bit of progress on this case. We’ve already got a nice list of names and addresses to start with.”

  “Constable Barnes has been very helpful.” Mrs. Jeffries could see that none of them were particularly enthusiastic. “He pointed out that Christopher Gilhaney hadn’t been in London very long, so he probably hadn’t had time to make many enemies.”

  “Where was he from?” Phyllis asked.

  “Originally he was from London, but he’d been working for years in Manchester. On the night he was killed he’d been at a dinner party in Chelsea. So the other guests were the last ones to see him alive. That gives us a place to start.”

  “The killer could have followed him here from Manchester,” Wiggins muttered. “And I don’t see how we can be expected to ’elp solve this one. Hatchet’s right, the fella was murdered weeks ago and the killer is long gone.”

  Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “That’s true, but we can at least try.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair,” Phyllis protested. “Poor Inspector Witherspoon was looking forward to his trip with Lady Cannonberry and now he’s stuck investigating an old murder that’s going to be impossible to solve.”

  “He wasn’t the only one with travel plans,” Betsy murmured. “But let’s get on with it. What do we know about the victim?” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries expectantly.

  But the housekeeper was staring off into space with a slight frown on her face.

  Mrs. Goodge cleared her throat and, when that didn’t get Mrs. Jeffries’ attention, plunged in herself. “Constable Barnes was able to supply a few details. The victim came to London to take a position at Walker and Company; they’re a firm of builders. According to the constable, it’s a large firm and Christopher Gilhaney had just been appointed as head of finance and been given a seat on the board.”

  “Where did he live?” Hatchet asked.

  “At a lodging house in Putney. We’ve got the address.”

  Hatchet looked puzzled. “That seems strange. You’d think someone like that would be sta
ying at one of London’s best hotels.”

  “Maybe he had a reason for keeping his head down a bit,” Wiggins suggested. “After all, someone killed ’im.”

  Mrs. Jeffries gave a small shake of her head. “Yes, well, I’m sure we could speculate, but I think it much more useful for us to get out and about. We need to gather some real facts. But the first thing we should do is find out what we can about the victim.”

  “But he’d only been in London a few weeks, so are ya wantin’ one of us to go to Manchester?” Wiggins demanded.

  “Of course not, but he’d not lived his whole life in Manchester. He was originally from London, from Clapham, to be precise. But first, I think you ought to nip around to his lodging house in Putney.”

  Wiggins took a sip of tea. “That sounds easy enough. Maybe Phyllis can talk to the local merchants there as well.” He gave the maid a hopeful smile. “We could take the omnibus or even a hansom cab since there’s two of us.”

  “I’d rather she concentrate on the guests who were at the dinner party the night of the murder.” Mrs. Jeffries turned her attention to the maid. “Theodore and Hazel Bruce live less than a quarter mile away, on Seldon Place. Florence Bruce—she’s Theodore’s sister and was also at the dinner party—lives with them.”

  Phyllis said, “I’ll start there.”

  “There were seven guests, the Chases, and the victim at the dinner party that night. So we’re going to be spread a bit thin on this one.”

  “And we don’t even know if one of them is the killer,” Smythe pointed out. “As Wiggins said, someone could have followed Gilhaney here from Manchester. But this lot is as good a place to start as any. Who d’ya want me to start with?”

  Mrs. Jeffries noticed he didn’t mention tapping his own sources, one of which was most reliable but quite expensive. Apparently, Smythe had so little faith in their ability to catch this killer that he didn’t want to waste his money on a visit to Blimpey Groggins, a buyer and seller of information. The others in the household didn’t realize that Smythe used his own money on their cases, and he could well afford it, but she’d figured it out long ago. But, wealthy as he was, he wasn’t one to pour money into a case he considered a lost cause. She didn’t blame him. She had very little confidence in their ability to solve this one. The clues were as cold as the brass knob on the attic door. What was more, from the dour expression on both his and Betsy’s faces, it was obvious they were both put out over the thought that they’d miss their trip to Paris. “Why don’t you go to the local pubs, ask about, and pick up what you can?”

  “And me?” Betsy asked. “Should I find out what I can about Ann Holter?”

  “That’s a good idea.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the notepaper on the table. “Her address is number seven Abbington Road in Chelsea.”

  Smythe frowned at his wife. “What about Amanda? I don’t want her out in this cold.”

  “Our neighbor can watch her,” Betsy said. “Elinor’s a good lass and she needs the extra money. She’s saving to go to secretarial college.”

  “I’ll spend the morning sending out notes to my sources,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And the butcher’s boy is coming today. He might know something, though I doubt it, as the poor lad is thick as two short planks. Still, we’ve got to ask.”

  “Who would you like me to investigate?” Hatchet asked. He looked gloomier than an undertaker.

  “Leon Webster. He works in his family business, Webster’s Metals. They’re one of Walker and Company’s suppliers and he’s also on the Walker and Company board. He lives at number eighteen Nolan Court, West Brompton.” She turned her attention to Luty. “And if I give you the list of names, can you find out whatever you can about their finances? See what you can learn about Newton Walker as well; he might have had his own reasons for bringing Gilhaney into his company.”

  “Sure will.” Luty grinned. “And I’ll find out about Gilhaney’s finances, too. If I’ve got to sweet-talk a bunch of boring bankers, I might as well kill as many birds as I can with one stone.”

  “Goodness, it appears we’ve got a bit of work ahead of ourselves.” Mrs. Jeffries tried to summon a cheerful smile. “So let’s get on with it.”

  “What about Robert Longworth?” Wiggins asked. “You want me to find out what I can about ’im after I’ve finished with Gilhaney’s lodgin’ ’ouse?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “I’ll take care of Longworth.”

  Everyone stared at her with shock, and in one case a horrified expression, on their faces. Finally, Betsy said what they were all thinking. “But, Mrs. Jeffries, you don’t do things like that. You do the thinking, we do the investigating.”

  “I know.” She straightened her spine. She didn’t know if she ought to feel very flattered or extremely insulted. “But this is a special circumstance. We’re spread very thin and we want to get it solved as quickly as possible.”

  “I’m not sure it’s possible at all,” Hatchet muttered darkly.

  Luty poked him in the arm and gave him a good glare. “Quit bein’ such a crepe draper. Of course it’s possible. We’re goin’ to catch this killer. Now, let’s git movin’ so we have something useful to report at our afternoon meetin’.”

  • • •

  “What time did Mr. Gilhaney leave that night?” Witherspoon asked. He generally had a lot of faith in the importance of what he termed “time lines,” but he feared that in this case, it might be a pointless exercise. However, he knew his duty and this was pertinent information. Besides, he or Barnes would verify her statements with the servants.

  “It was fairly early—” She broke off with a frown. “No, no, I tell a lie, he was one of the last to leave. The only person who left after he’d gone was Newton Walker …” Her voice trailed off. “No, again I tell a lie, they left at the same time. Newton had to wait for his carriage to be brought to the front of the house and it came just as Mr. Gilhaney left.”

  “And this was at what time?” the inspector reminded her gently.

  “Gilhaney left at eight forty-seven,” a deep male voice said.

  They turned to see a middle-aged man with graying brown hair and spectacles coming toward them. “Good day, gentlemen, I’m Gordon Chase. You must be the police.”

  Witherspoon rose to his feet. “That’s correct, sir. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is my colleague Constable Barnes.”

  Barnes nodded respectfully and put his notebook on the table so he could get up, but Chase waved him back into his seat.

  “Please stay where you are, Constable,” Chase said. He extended his hand to the inspector and the two men shook. “Do be seated, Inspector. This is a dreadful business and I’m sure you want to get it cleared up as quickly as possible.”

  “How did you know the police were going to be here this morning?” Abigail Chase eyed her husband curiously as he sat down next to her.

  He laughed. “There was a message from John Denby waiting for me when I got to the office today.”

  “That man that works at the Home Office, the odd-looking gentleman with the protruding teeth and the lazy eye?”

  “That’s not his fault, Abigail, but yes, that’s him.”

  “Goodness, he must have really been upset about Gilhaney’s death to send you a telegram first thing in the morning,” Abigail replied.

  “He didn’t send me a telegram, we spoke on the telephone. Newton had one installed at the office last year and John’s had one for several years now. Each time the wretched contraption rings it scares Newton’s secretary so badly the poor fellow almost faints. But nonetheless, that’s how I learned there had been a substantial change in the investigation. But I’m sure the police have more important things to worry about than how I happened to come home to speak with them.” He patted his wife’s hand and then looked at the inspector.

  “You were very precise in your answer as to the time Gilhaney left,” Witherspoon said. “You must have a very good memory.”
<
br />   “Not especially, Inspector, but his departure stuck in my mind because my wife very kindly pointed to the clock just after we’d seen everyone out the door.” He looked amused.

  “That’s right, I did.” Abigail Chase smiled approvingly. “I should have remembered the time myself. It was almost ten minutes to nine and our Bonfire Night was over. I was furious. Normally, one wouldn’t even dine until eight o’clock, but Newton had made it obvious that eating after half seven gave him indigestion so for his sake, dinner was served early. But still, one shouldn’t have a completely empty drawing room before nine o’clock when one has a dinner party. Of course that wasn’t our fault, it was that wretched Christopher Gilhaney. His insults were so awful it’s no wonder everyone left.”

  “Now, now, dear.” Gordon Chase patted his wife’s hand again. “It isn’t right to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Why not—he spoke ill of the living and ruined our party!”

  “Mr. Chase, can you recall the order in which your guests left?” Barnes asked.

  He thought for a moment. “Well, the first one to go was Ann Holter—she claimed a headache and then bolted as soon as she’d finished her meal. She didn’t withdraw with the ladies while the gentlemen had their port.”

  “Do you recall the exact time?” Witherspoon asked. Perhaps he still might have a chance at getting a reasonable time line after all.

  “Not really.” Gordon looked at his wife but she shook her head. “Then they began to leave in quick succession. Leon Webster went next—he left before the port was served—and then I believe it was Robert Longworth and then the three Bruces.” He frowned. “Or was it Gilhaney?”

  “No, no, Gilhaney left with Newton Walker,” Abigail declared. “Everyone else had gone by then. Remember, Newton had to wait for his carriage.”

  “That’s right, Newton offered Gilhaney a ride home, but he refused and claimed he wanted to walk.”

  “Humph.” Abigail snorted delicately. “If the fool had gotten into the carriage, he might still be alive.”