Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “Or maybe he didn’t hold her responsible,” Phyllis suggested. “She wasn’t married when the roof collapsed, and as Walker’s daughter, she had nothing to do with his business.”

  “We can talk about this till the cows come home,” Luty interjected. “But it seems to me the one with the real motive here is Florence Bruce. If Mrs. Bruce got a divorce, Florence would be the one with the most to lose. We already know her brother sold the Bruce family home out from under her. He’d do alright if Hazel tossed him out on his ear, but Florence wouldn’t have a roof over her head.”

  • • •

  Witherspoon smiled as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler. “I think we’re making real progress today, Mrs. Jeffries. Let’s have our drink and I’ll tell you all about it.” He started down the hall and then stopped at the open door to the drawing room. “Oh, my goodness, this is lovely.”

  Mrs. Jeffries joined him by the door. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Cutler brought the evergreens this afternoon. He’s bringing the tree on the twenty-fourth.” She pointed to a bare spot by the fireplace. “I’ve taken that big chair out so we can put the tree there.”

  “It looks so festive.” He grinned. “It’s perfect, Mrs. Jeffries. You’ve done a fine job.”

  Pine boughs decorated with bright red velvet ribbons lay along the top of the fireplace mantel and at each end stood an elaborate silver candelabra holding rose-scented white candles. In the middle of the mantelpiece was a brilliant china crèche with the holy family, manger, shepherds, angels, and a surprisingly large number of sheep. Mrs. Jeffries had found it in the attic, cleaned it, and brought it down for their enjoyment. Woven wreaths were hanging in the windows and holly branches with their crimson seeds were arranged in tall vases and placed strategically around the big room. The usual cotton table runners had been replaced with festive green satin ones and gold satin streamers had been hung along the curtain rails.

  “Thank you, sir. Regardless of what happens with the case, we’re going to enjoy our Christmas together.”

  “Don’t despair, Mrs. Jeffries. I’ve a feeling we’ll do more than just have our Christmas together. Come along and let me tell you about my day.”

  They went to his study and she poured their sherry while he relaxed into his chair.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He took his drink. “It’s been the most extraordinary day. To begin with we had another chat with Leon Webster. I must say he didn’t look pleased to see us when we arrived.” He told her about their interview. “Fortunately for Webster, the local constables were aware of the gambling house so we were able to confirm his whereabouts quickly. The, ah, proprietor verified that Webster arrived on Bonfire Night around eight forty-five, which is only ten minutes or so after he left the Chase home.”

  “And you said that Mr. Chase claimed Gilhaney and Newton Walker left his house at eight forty-seven, so that means Webster couldn’t have been in Kilbane Mews committing the murder.” She took a sip of sherry. “Is this gambling person reliable? If Webster’s a regular customer, he might lie to give the man an alibi.”

  “We thought of that,” Witherspoon replied. “But the local constable assured us that despite running a gambling den, the owner isn’t one to lie to the police. After we left Webster’s Metals, we went to Walker and Company.” He repeated the interview he’d had with Gordon Chase.

  When he’d finished, a question popped into her mind and she blurted it out without thinking. “Mr. Chase didn’t happen to mention which of them was supposed to have instructed the clerks to bring the records down, did he?”

  Witherspoon looked surprised by the question. “No, actually, he didn’t.”

  “It’s not important, sir, it’s just something that passed through my mind and landed on my tongue.” She wracked her brain, trying to think of ways to hint about the information the household had learned over the day. “I was just surprised that something Mr. Walker had been so adamant about hadn’t been done.” Again, she had no clue where that comment had come from and it certainly wasn’t moving the inspector along the path she wished him to take. She tried to think of a comment that would get him looking at Ann Holter again. If Phyllis’ source was to be trusted, Ann Holter was both vindictive and capable of murder. What’s more, from what Hatchet had told them, she blamed the dead man for ruining her life. “I take it you’ve sent constables to speak with Mr. Harlow and the Blodgetts.”

  “Yes, and they were able to get back to us before we left the station today. Mr. Harlow confirmed that he and Gordon Chase had walked back to their homes together and Mrs. Blodgett verified the time Chase arrived at the river.”

  “So he’s no longer a suspect?”

  “Not really. Besides, he had no known past connected with Gilhaney.”

  “That means he had no motive that you could find. But what about the discrepancy between what Newton Walker told you and what you’ve heard from other, reliable sources about the company?”

  He frowned over the rim of his glass. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  She had to tread carefully here because she didn’t want to divulge anything that the household knew but which Barnes hadn’t been able to pass along to the inspector. So she chose her words carefully, but before she answered him, he said, “Oh, I see what you mean. Walker said he’d hired Gilhaney for advice about selling the company, but, of course, that was only part of the reason he’d brought the man on board, so to speak. Gilhaney was also going to sort out the finances.” He tapped his chin. “I can’t recall who said it, but I know someone said the company wasn’t making the sort of profits it should be making. What’s more, apparently, that’s been happening for quite a long time. But I expect that is true of most companies, isn’t it?”

  She had no idea. But before she could make another comment, he continued. “I’ve not told you the most interesting thing that happened today. When we got to the station, Gilhaney’s solicitor was there.”

  “Good gracious, sir, was it the one from Manchester, the firm you telegraphed?”

  She stopped fretting over what to say next and just listened.

  “He was and he was quite annoyed that he hadn’t been notified of Gilhaney’s death.” Witherspoon grimaced. “I’m not one to complain about a fellow officer, but when this case is finished, I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak to Chief Superintendent Barrows.”

  She stared at him hopefully. “About Inspector Nivens?”

  “Yes.” He put his glass on the table next to him, taking care not to touch the prickly holly leaf. “If Nivens had gone through Gilhaney’s personal effects in a timely manner, he’d have found his solicitor. As I said, Mr. Smalling was very upset when we saw him.” He told her about their encounter with the solicitor.

  She interrupted at one point. “He’s going to have Gilhaney reburied? Gracious, sir, can you do that?”

  “One can; it’s difficult, but as Gilhaney’s wishes weren’t carried out in the first place and he has no family to object, Mr. Smalling should be able to do it. Apparently, he knows all about the process, as he had Polly Wakeman’s body moved from a pauper’s grave to the Fulham Palace Road Cemetery some years ago. Gilhaney is going to be buried next to her. But the most astounding information we learned was about Gilhaney’s heirs.”

  “He had a substantial estate?”

  “He was very rich. The estate is worth sixty thousand pounds.” Witherspoon picked his glass up and drained it. He told her the terms of the will, taking care to mention both the legacies for Gilhaney’s old friends and the scholarship fund to be set up in Polly Wakeman’s name. “He left the remaining twenty-five thousand pounds to one of our suspects and, for the life of me, I can’t think why.”

  “Who was it, sir?” But she had a feeling she already knew the answer.

  “Hazel Bruce,” Witherspoon announced. “What’s more, Smalling said that Mrs. Bruce was fully aware she was one of Gilhaney’s principal heirs.”

  “Did Gilhaney tell her he was leaving her a
fortune?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “No, Smalling let it slip when he’d had too much to drink. It happened in Manchester. She’s actually the reason Gilhaney hired him to handle his legal affairs. She recommended him.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Last October, they were at a dinner party at her friend’s home and she made some …” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Smalling didn’t tell us exactly what she said, but she made some very disparaging remarks about Gilhaney. He took offense on his client’s behalf and blurted out that she ought to watch her tongue, that he was leaving her twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  • • •

  Once again, Mrs. Jeffries found herself in the kitchen late at night. The house was locked up and she was at the kitchen table. But tonight she wasn’t celebrating with a glass of brandy; she was thinking. The inspector had made a clear and compelling argument for Hazel Bruce as the chief suspect and for the most part she agreed with him.

  As a matter of fact, she had even more evidence that pointed to Mrs. Bruce as the killer. The inspector didn’t know what they had found out about the woman; he didn’t know that she loathed her husband and had a history of taking lovers; he didn’t know that Gilhaney had been one of her lovers nor that she had a gun. The question now became, how to make certain the inspector learned all of this as quickly as possible so that their Christmas plans weren’t ruined?

  She stared off into space, trying to come up with solutions to this problem. Some of it could be fed to him through Constable Barnes. He could say that an informant had come forward and told him about the weapon. Yes, that could easily work—she nodded as the idea took form in her mind. And guns weren’t sold on every street corner. A revolver was expensive and only bought by those with plenty of money.

  But what about the fact that she and Gilhaney had been lovers—how could Barnes have learned about it? She thought for a long time, going over each and every detail that she could recall in an attempt to find that little something that would explain the constable stumbling across that tidbit of information.

  She sat for another half hour, going over everything she could remember, before she gave up and went up to bed.

  Pulling back the bedclothes, she got under the covers, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. But she slept fitfully, waking a half dozen times as one thought after another took residence in her mind and refused to leave.

  By the time she got up the next morning, she doubted that Hazel Bruce had killed anyone. If she was going to commit murder, the most likely victim would have been her husband, but he was still alive and well. Mrs. Jeffries hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil.

  “You’re up early.” Mrs. Goodge yawned and then looked down as Samson butted her with his big, wide head. “Hold on, lovey, I’ve got to get your scraps out of the wet larder.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” Mrs. Jeffries offered as the cook and the cat shuffled down the hall.

  Five minutes later, Samson was hunched over his food bowl and the two women were at the table with their hands wrapped around their mugs of tea. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you, Hepzibah.”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. She looked at the carriage clock. “And we’re running out of time. Wiggins will be up in a few minutes to light the fires and heat the house and I don’t want to be interrupted.” She repeated what the inspector had told her. “At first, I agreed with him, but I was awakened a dozen times last night and every time, another idea or another fact came to mind and now it seems to me that the evidence is pointing to someone else.”

  “What are we to do, then?” Mrs. Goodge looked worried. “Let me speak plainly, Hepzibah. I’m more likely to trust your judgment than I am the inspector’s, though I mean him no disrespect. But if he has evidence of her guilt, he’s going to want to make an arrest soon, possibly even today.”

  “He mustn’t. I’m sure she’s innocent.” Mrs. Jeffries rapped her fingertips against the table as she tried to think of what could be done. “Perhaps Constable Barnes—”

  Mrs. Goodge cut her off. “No, don’t even think it; the constable is a good policeman, but unless you have enough evidence to convince him you’re right and our inspector is wrong, he’ll not try and stop an arrest. Do you have enough evidence?”

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment and thought of all the bits and pieces that had played havoc with her rest. She knew she was right and now she had to come up with a way to prove it. “Not yet, but I’m going to try and find it.”

  When Barnes arrived, the two women passed along their information and listened as he provided a few more details the inspector had missed.

  “Do you think you’re getting to the end of this one, Constable?” Mrs. Goodge asked innocently as he finished his tea.

  He put the cup down, shoved his chair back, and rose to his feet. “Indeed I do. I’ve a feeling we’ll all be able to have our Christmas plans after all.”

  “Are you that close to making an arrest?” Mrs. Jeffries got up as well.

  “I am now.” He grinned. “Now that your lot has discovered Mrs. Bruce owns a gun, we’ve an excellent reason to interview her and her servants again.”

  “Are you going there this morning?” Mrs. Jeffries needed to know how much time, if any, she had.

  “We’ll be going to the station first to read the reports. The inspector sent several constables out yesterday evening to look for witnesses. If Mrs. Bruce left her home after she claimed to be retiring, someone might have seen her. Then we’ll be going to Scotland Yard—there’s a meeting the inspector must attend—and after that, we’ll pay a call at the Bruce home.”

  “But how could she have gone out once she got home? Everyone reported the woman was so sleepy she could barely stay awake at the dinner party,” Mrs. Goodge argued.

  “She was faking.” Barnes started for the back stairs. “If the inspector’s theory is correct, that was the excuse she used to get away from the Chase house early. Once there, she could have slipped out a door or even a downstairs window and gone after Gilhaney.” He waved and disappeared up the stairs.

  • • •

  Betsy and Smythe were the first to arrive for the morning meeting. Betsy put Amanda down and the toddler immediately rushed to Mrs. Goodge and tugged on her skirt.

  “Just a minute, lovey, let me put this dough to rise and then we’ll have a nice cuddle.”

  “Luty and Hatchet were pullin’ up at the back gate,” Smythe said as he kept a watchful eye on his daughter.

  “Let’s hope everyone gets here quickly.” Mrs. Jeffries took her seat. “We’ve much to do today and everyone might have to get out and about.”

  “You’ve figured it out.” Betsy pivoted from her chair to the worktable and pulled Amanda into her arms so the cook could finish her task. “Oh, thank goodness, I really wanted to go to Paris. Let’s start as soon as everyone gets here.”

  Mrs. Goodge covered the dough with a clean cloth and put the bowl by the cooker. She took her seat and held out her arms. “Give me my darling,” she demanded, “and be quick about it. The back door is opening and it might be Luty.”

  It was Ruth, but Luty and Hatchet were right behind her. Mrs. Jeffries started before they even had their tea poured.

  She told them everything she’d learned from the inspector, including the fact that he was sure Hazel Bruce was the killer. “But I think he might be wrong,” she finished.

  “Why?” Betsy stared at her, curious. “It sounds like she’s the only one with a real motive for wanting Gilhaney dead. She’s going to inherit a huge amount of money.”

  “She already has money,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “And what’s more, I think she loved him and he loved her.”

  “I thought his true love was Polly Wakeman.” Phyllis looked disappointed in the dead man.

  “You can love more than one person in a lifetime,” Ruth said. “I loved my husband very much, but I also care deeply for Gerald.” She turned her attention to Mrs. Jeffries.
“Do you think Gerald is going to arrest her today?”

  “I think it’s possible, but I’m not sure. What I’m more concerned about is that once the inspector questions her again, the real killer will get away.”

  “You know who did it?” Ruth pressed.

  “I think so, but it’s going to be difficult to prove.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Phyllis asked.

  Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath and thought for a moment. In her mind, it was very clear, but collecting the sort of evidence needed to make an arrest was another kettle of fish altogether. “I want you to go back to the Chase home and speak to one of the servants who was serving on the night of the murder. I need to know if anyone was in the dining room alone while the dinner was being served. At one point in the evening, Gordon Chase made everyone go outside to see the fireworks. We need to know who, if anyone, stayed inside for more than a moment or two after the others had gone out.”

  “I can go and have a word with Peggy,” Wiggins offered. “She was servin’ that night.”

  “I’ve another task for you,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  Phyllis looked doubtful. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Jeffries, but that’s going to be difficult. It was weeks ago and it’s not the sort of thing you’d remember unless you had a reason to remember it.”

  “What about me?” Betsy asked.

  “Go and see Molly. Find out what else she knows about Ted Bruce’s ‘hidey-hole.’ From what you’ve said, she sounds a very greedy person, so if you need to, cross her palm with a bit of silver.”

  Betsy nodded. That method had worked before. “Molly does know more than she told me; people like her always hold something back.”

  “What do ya mean?” Wiggins looked confused. “How do ya know?”

  “Because she’s already discovered that snoopin’ is a good way to earn money,” Phyllis told him. “And people like that are always on the lookout to get as much as they can. I’ll wager she watches both the Bruces and holds a bit back so she has something to tell old Mr. Walker.”