Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time, page 18
part #25 of Mrs Jeffries Series
Mrs. Jeffries slipped into her chair and plastered a serene smile on her face. There was an air of excitement around the table this afternoon and that, of course, meant that everyone had learned something. She only wished she could say the same for herself. “Who would like to go first?”
“Well, mine will likely be the shortest,” Luty said. “I had a word with an acquaintance of mine that runs the Exhibition Hall at the Crystal Palace.”
“Crystal Palace?” Hatchet stared at her incredulously.
“Now just hold your horses and your tongue,” Luty warned. “I know it don’t seem like an exhibition hall has anything to do with our case, but if you’ll think for a minute—”
“I see what you mean,” Wiggins interrupted. “You went there to find out if anyone knew Yancy Humphreys. He used to show off his gadgets in some of them exhibitions.”
Luty nodded in satisfaction. “That’s right, and it turned out it was good that I went there. Archie did know Humphreys, well, he didn’t know him personally, but he remembers the man. Seems Yancy Humphreys exhibited a bunch of his contraptions in the hall a few years back. He was tryin’ to drum up some interest in his inventions. Archie said a couple of them were pretty interesting. One of them was a mechanical device that used a clockwork spring of some sort so that every hour or so it . . . uh . . . well, it did something . . .” She broke off, frowning in confusion. “Nells bells, I can’t recall all the fancy words Archie used, but the heart of the matter is that from the way Archie described it, the contraption was the kind of invention a confectionary manufacturer might have seen and copied. Archie said it was designed so the timing mechanism could be changed from seconds to minutes to hours and that bits on it could be changed to suit whatever purpose was needed. Archie said that Humphreys claimed the thing had lots of uses. I got to thinkin’ that if you’re makin’ candy, you cook it for so long, then you add your other ingredients, and then you pour it out right quick and set it to harden.”
“I see what you’re sayin’.” Mrs. Goodge nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, imagine if you could have a machine that did all your mixin’ and addin’ for you.”
Luty nodded. “So I asked Archie and he had a look at the old records and there were three confectionary representatives registered when Yancy was showin’ off his gadgets. I just thought it was mighty suspicious that right when Francis Humphreys was murdered, Smythe finds out that there’s someone worried about whether Pamela Bowden Humphreys might be able to sue for patent infringement.”
“But she wasn’t the one that was murdered,” Hatchet reminded her.
Luty rolled her eyes. “I know that. But that don’t mean the two events aren’t connected.”
“You’re absolutely right, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries intervened quickly. “At this point in the investigation, we don’t want to ignore any information. As you say, we’ve no idea what might or might not turn out to be useful.”
Luty smiled triumphantly. “Thank you. That’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ll go next,” Ruth volunteered. She waited a fraction of a second and when no one objected, she plunged straight into her report. “I didn’t have much luck at Francis Humphreys’ funeral this morning. Truth to tell, I didn’t even get invited back to the house for the reception.”
“You didn’t hear anything?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “That’s a pity.”
“Not unless you count eavesdropping on two women as I left the church, but all they were talking about was the seating arrangements for the service. Apparently, one of the women thought it unseemly that Michael Collier, a single man, was sitting right next to Imogene Ross, a single woman.” Ruth giggled. “But as the church was packed full of people, I don’t expect that anyone, even the family, had much choice in the seating arrangements. But even though I had no luck at the service, I’d invited my friend Marisol Pulman around for tea this afternoon and she was a veritable fountain of knowledge.” Ruth told them everything she’d learned. She didn’t embellish or form any opinions. She simply repeated as much of the conversation as she could recall. When she’d finished, she sat back in her chair, picked up her cup, and took a sip of tea.
“That’s sad, isn’t it,” Betsy commented. “Annabelle Prescott married and then felt she’d been cheated.” She looked at Smythe. “Stupid woman, she ought to have taken the time to get to know her man.”
“What’s the old adage? ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure, ’ ” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “I always thought that was a stupid saying. I’ve seen a number of miserable marriages where both parties had known each other for years. Seems to me that sometimes you never get to know people very well. Take what happened this morning, for instance. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I opened that back door and saw Mollie Dubay standin’ there. Oh, sorry, Lady . . . Ruth . . . were you through with your report?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then why don’t you tell us about your day,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. It was obvious the cook was dying to go next.
“If you insist. Well, as I was sayin’, I opened the back door and instead of it bein’ the source I was expectin’, there was Mollie Dubay. She worked in Lord Fremont’s house or rather she did until this morning, but she got sacked—”
“There’s a lot of that going about these days,” Betsy interrupted. “Agnes’ friend just got sacked from Humphreys House.”
“Who got sacked?” Wiggins demanded. “What’s ’er name?”
“Can I finish my report?” the cook cried.
“Sorry.” Betsy smiled apologetically and glanced at Wiggins. She mouthed “Rachel” as Mrs. Goodge continued speaking.
“As I was sayin’, it was a bit of a shock finding Mollie on my doorstep, but luckily, it turned out she did know something about our case.” Mrs. Goodge told them what she’d heard from her unwelcome guest. She gave them all the facts, but out of loyalty to her friend, she said nothing about Mollie’s emotional state. An old woman’s humiliation and tears wasn’t anyone else’s business. “I think we ought to send someone to the Chalmers household in case Estelle Collier’s maid is still there,” she concluded. “It would be good to know the name of the niece that was nursing her when she took a turn for the worse.”
“Especially as the poor woman died just when she was insisting the police are notified about the missing money,” Ruth added. “Not that I’m saying the niece is guilty—the two events happening at the same time could be a coincidence.”
“But who could we possibly send on such an errand?” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Her fingers drummed lightly against her teacup as she considered the problem.
“And the maid might not even still be there,” Betsy pointed out. “If she was a properly trained ladies’ maid and could do hair and knew how to take care of a wardrobe, she’d have not stayed long in a household as a scullery girl.”
“Agreed, but Mrs. Goodge is right. It’s important we find out who nursed Estelle Collier,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Even if the maid is no longer at the Chalmers household, they’ll have some idea where she went. As to who to send there, I think we ought to send Luty.”
“Madam doesn’t even know the Chalmerses,” Hatchet objected.
“Oh, that don’t make any difference.” Luty chuckled. “I’ll git into that house and have myself a nice, long chat with someone. Just leave it to me. I’ll find out everything we need to know.”
“Be careful of your boasts, madam. You’ve no idea who these people are or if they even still reside in the neighborhood. If they do, they’re quite likely to show you the door,” Hatchet replied irritably.
“You worry too much. What do you say we take a little bet on whether or not I can git in there and find out the girl’s whereabouts,” Luty retorted.
“We all have complete faith in your abilities,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected quickly. “So there’s no need for wagers. Just do your utmost to find out our information by tomorrow’s meeting. Can you do that for us?”
“You’ll know the niece’s name by tomorrow night,” Luty promised.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to Betsy. “Why don’t you go next?”
Betsy, who’d just taken a sip of tea, swallowed and put down her cup. “I tried talking to some of the shopkeepers in Michael Collier’s neighborhood, but no one seemed to know much about him, so I went to Acton and got very lucky. Just as I arrived, a young maid came out the servants’ entrance so I followed her.” She grinned. “And my luck got even better. I ended up having tea with Agnes Wilder, one of the few maids that is still left at the Humphreys home.”
“So it was Rachel that got the sack?” Wiggins shook his head sadly.
“That’s right, but according to Agnes, she was very lazy and had been warned about her work,” Betsy replied. “So I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the murder. But let me tell you the rest.” She told them everything Agnes had told her. “So it seems Mrs. Prescott is definitely playing the lady of the manor,” she finished.
“I’m more interested in why Imogene Ross is sneaking in and out the side entrance,” Hatchet mused. “Surely it wasn’t just to mail a few letters?”
“It’d be more than a few if she was actively lookin’ for a new position,” Mrs. Goodge said. “So that would explain the stack of correspondence Agnes saw her carryin’ out of the house. Believe me, when you’re lookin’ for work, you send inquiries to every prospect you see in the advertisements.”
“Mrs. Prescott appears to be certain she now owns the house,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “But does she?”
“If the inspector went to see the solicitor today, he ought to be able to give us that information when he gets home.” Smythe stared at the clock on the pine sideboard. “And if we don’t get on with this meetin’, he’s goin’ to arrive and catch us sittin’ here. If Betsy’s finished, I’d like to say my bit now.”
“Go on then.” Betsy grinned. “I’m done.”
Smythe told them what he’d learned from Blimpey Groggins.
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins cried when he’d finished his report. “This case is so ruddy complicated it’s goin’ to take Mrs. Jeffries a month of Sundays to suss it all out. Collier goin’ to a solicitor, Joseph Humphreys drinkin’ like there’s no tomorrow, poor Rachel gettin’ sacked for no reason—”
“But there was a reason,” Betsy protested. “The girl was lazy.”
“Maybe so, but she was sacked on the day of Humphreys’ funeral,” Wiggins pointed out. “Seems to me if they was ’avin’ a funeral reception at the ’ouse, they’d need all the servants to work and if you were goin’ to sack someone, you’d wait until the poor man was decently in the ground. Accordin’ to your Agnes, Rachel was fired that morning, before the funeral!”
“Wiggins is right.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the footman. “That is odd. Do you think you can find Rachel?”
“According to Agnes, she was going to a pub somewhere on Ealing Broadway,” Betsy supplied helpfully. “There couldn’t be too many of them.”
“But what should I ask her?” Wiggins looked confused. “I mean, I think it’s right important we talk to her, but now that I think about it, I’m not sure what it is we’re wantin’ to find out?”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure, either. “I don’t know, but I suspect that Rachel might have seen or heard something on the day of the murder.”
“So you think Annabelle Prescott is the killer?” Luty asked eagerly. “She’s the one that gave the instruction to sack the girl.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “We don’t know that. Furthermore, I think it equally important that Smythe go to the Sun and Moon pub and if possible, find out why Joseph Humphreys was uncharacteristically drinking himself into a stupor.”
The meeting broke up only minutes before Inspector Witherspoon arrived home. “Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she reached for his bowler. “Did you have a good day?”
“It was productive, I think.” He frowned as he unbuttoned his coat. “But then again, one is never sure.” His fingers stopped over a buttonhole. He took a deep breath, sniffing the air. “Ah, Mrs. Jeffries, what is that heavenly smell?”
“Roast chicken, sir. Mrs. Goodge has also done potatoes with an onion and parsley sauce, sprouts, and an apricot fool for dessert,” she replied. “It’s ready to eat whenever you are, sir.”
“I’m not in a hurry.” He resumed his task. “We can eat later. I think I’d like a nice glass of sherry. I take it you will join me?”
“Of course, sir.” She took his overcoat and hung it on the peg. She’d been hoping he’d want a sherry. “Go on into the drawing room, sir.”
A few moments later, he was ensconced in his favorite chair and she was handing him a glass of Harveys. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He reached for his sherry and took a quick drink. “This is precisely what I needed. It’s been a very busy day and I must say, Constable Gates isn’t the most useful fellow to have along when one is investigating a murder.”
“Really, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. “Perhaps he’s just inexperienced.”
“That’s what I thought,” he replied, taking another sip and this time, almost draining the glass. “He did fairly well for most of the day, especially after Humphreys’ solicitor put him firmly in his place, and I thought the rascal had learned his lesson. Bullying people simply does not work; honestly, you’d think these young pups had never heard of the admonition to do unto others as you would have done unto you.”
Mrs. Jeffries was a bit alarmed. The inspector generally didn’t quote scripture when he was on a case. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
He sighed. “It’s one of my secrets, Mrs. Jeffries, and not something I’d normally share with anyone, but I trust you.” He drained the glass completely and held it out to her for a refill. “May I have another, please?”
“Of course, sir.” She took the glass and got to her feet. But she was very confused. Gracious, this case was already muddled enough, Barnes was gone, Gates was a nuisance, the inspector was quoting the Bible, and now he wanted another drink. She went to the cupboard and poured another sherry. She took a deep breath and got hold of herself. Getting upset before she heard what the inspector had to say was foolish. “You were saying, sir,” she reminded him. She handed him his glass and took her seat.
“I was saying that it’s one of my secrets,” he said. “It’s how I get people to talk to me. Let’s be honest, Mrs. Jeffries. Most people, especially those who would be considered the criminal element, don’t generally like policemen. But I’ve found that if I treat everyone, including suspects, as I would wish to be treated, then I get very good results.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “It’s one of my ‘methods,’ as it were, but not one I’ve shared with anyone other than yourself.”
Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. In a bizarre sort of way, it made perfect sense. No one appreciated being bullied or patronized or dismissed. “I’m flattered you trust me with your secret, sir. I promise I’ll not tell anyone. I take it Constable Gates was unable to live up to your standards?”
“He did his best, I suppose,” Witherspoon murmured. He took another sip. “But he’s still very much a bully. Constable Barnes could be quite firm, but he only resorted to that particular tactic when people refused to cooperate. But as I said, the Humphreys’ solicitor put young Lionel firmly in his place.” He giggled. “He made him sit by the door.”
“Really, sir?”
“Oh yes, but all in all, the solicitor was very cooperative. He didn’t hold anything back.” Witherspoon went on to tell her everything Eldon Roberts had shared with him. “After that, we went along and had a brief word with Mr. Robert Eddington. He’d just come back from the funeral. I didn’t think it proper to question the family on the day they were burying their uncle.”
“Of course not, sir,” she responded. “Mr. Eddington was in the house on the afternoon of the murder, wasn’t he?”
“He was one of the guests,” Witherspoon replied. “But I’m afraid he could tell us very little.”
“How unfortunate.” She took a sip from her glass.
“All he said was that there was a loud boom and everyone rushed upstairs,” Witherspoon muttered. “Of course we already knew that.”
“What relationship did Mr. Eddington have with Francis Humphreys?”
“They were both train enthusiasts,” Witherspoon explained. “They’ve known one another for years. Mr. Eddington did say he was rather surprised by the invitation to tea, though. Apparently, he’d not spent much time with Humphreys in the last year or so.”
Somewhere deep inside, the bare bones of an idea nudged Mrs. Jeffries’ brain, but it scampered away before she could grasp the thing and make it tell her anything useful. Drat. “Were they estranged?” she asked. “Was there discord between them?”
“Not according to Mr. Eddington,” Witherspoon said. He tossed back the last of his sherry. “He said they’d simply become interested in different aspects of the railway. But I’m not sure that’s quite true as he was going on about those people who like ‘broad gauge’ as opposed to those who favored ‘narrow gauge.’ I’m quite an enthusiast myself, Mrs. Jeffries, but all I ever wish to do is look at the engines as they come through a railway station. But apparently, there are many who are very interested in every detail. Apparently, Eddington and Francis Humphreys were on opposing sides of the gauge issue, odd as it may seem.”
“Do you seriously consider Mr. Eddington a suspect?”
He smiled wearily. “Not really. He had nothing to gain by Humphreys’ death, despite their disagreement over the best gauge for a railway.”
