Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time, page 2
part #25 of Mrs Jeffries Series
“It was a gunshot,” Leo Kirkland said flatly. “Someone’s shot off a gun and what’s more, it was in the house.”
Annabelle and Imogene looked at each other just as Joseph charged for the door. Michael Collier went flying after him.
Everyone else got to their feet. The relatives all ran for the staircase, leaving only Eddington and the Browns in the drawing room.
Joseph and Michael reached the first floor landing at the same time; the women were right on their heels. For a split second, they stood there. Then Annabelle pointed to Francis’ room. “Look, his door is partially open. Oh goodness, you can see him. There’s something wrong. He’s not moving.”
The two men charged into the room. Francis Humphreys was sitting at his desk. His head was slumped over as though he’d fallen asleep and he was leaning to his left.
Michael got to him first. He reached down and put his fingers under the man’s chin. Then he gasped and hastily stepped back. Joseph impatiently shoved him aside. “What’s wrong? What is it?” He lifted his uncle’s chin so that everyone could see.
Blood dripped down from the small hole in Francis’ forehead and his eyes were open, giving his plump face a rather surprised expression.
“He’s been shot.” Michael’s voice was a shocked whisper.
“Oh, that’s most definitely a gunshot,” Leo Kirkland said calmly. He had entered the room quietly and come up to stand behind Annabelle.
“Oh my gracious,” Imogene cried. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.
“I think the ladies ought to leave the room,” Kirkland said softly.
“Is he dead?” Annabelle’s voice trembled.
Joseph reached over and put his fingers on the pulse point on Francis’ neck. After a few seconds, he moved his hand inside the man’s jacket, placing his fingers over his chest. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t feel a pulse or a heartbeat. I’m afraid he’s gone.”
Kirkland sighed heavily. “You really must call the police.”
“The police?” Pamela cried. “What are you talking about? Surely this was an accident.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Humphreys.” He smiled apologetically. “But it’ll be up to a magistrate or a coroner’s inquest to determine if this was an accident or murder.”
“Murder?” Michael Collier snapped. “That’s ridiculous. Who’d want to murder Uncle Francis? Maybe he did it to himself.”
“Suicides don’t usually shoot themselves in the forehead,” Joseph muttered. “And I can think of any number of people who had cause to want our esteemed uncle dead.” He looked pointedly at Michael.
“How dare you.” Michael’s eyes narrowed angrily. “That’s rich, coming from you. Just last week you told me you thought the old man was losing his reason.”
“I said that as well as a number of other things, but that’s not the same as putting a bullet through his head. Unlike some in this family, I don’t worship money.”
“Gentlemen, please, this is no time for recriminations or accusations,” Leo Kirkland said sharply.
Annabelle Prescott began to sob. Imogene put her arm around her shoulders and led her toward the door. “Mr. Kirkland is right; this is no place for us. Come along, I’ll take you to your room.”
Annabelle smiled through her tears. “I can’t stay here another moment.”
“Neither can I,” Pamela announced as she followed them out to the hall. “Let the men deal with this.”
As soon as the women had gone, Kirkland looked at the two young men standing over the body. “Someone had better go fetch the police and do it quickly. In the meantime, I suggest you clear everyone else out of here and lock the door. The police will want the room preserved in case there’s any evidence to be had.”
The household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon were finishing their afternoon tea. Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, was at the head of the table. She was a short, plump woman of late middle years. Her dark auburn hair was streaked with wide gray strands, her complexion pale and there were freckles sprinkled across her nose. Deep laugh lines were etched around her brown eyes and her thin lips were usually turned up in a happy smile. As was her custom, she wore a brown bombazine dress that rustled nicely when she walked and sensible black shoes.
“How much longer do you think this rain is going to last?” Betsy, the pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed maid commented as she reached for the teapot. “It seems like it’s been pouring for days now.”
“That’s because it ’as,” Wiggins, the footman, replied. He was a young man in his early twenties with round pink cheeks and brown hair that tended to curl in the damp. “All this wet is enough to drive a good man to drink.”
“Stop your complainin’,” Mrs. Goodge, the elderly, gray-haired cook interjected. “Wait till you get to be my age and then you’ll feel the cold in every bone of your body. Besides, it’s already March; spring will be here soon enough.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard as the hour struck. “I do hope the inspector isn’t going to be too late tonight. I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll dry out if I leave it too long.”
“Lucky for us we don’t ’ave a case now,” Smythe, the coachman, said. “Otherwise we’d ’ave to be out and about in this mess.” He was a tall man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features harsh, and his shoulders broad. He was engaged to Betsy and he loved her more than his own life. He grinned at her as he spoke, knowing his comment would provoke a reaction.
“I’d not mind the weather if we had a case.” Betsy shot her fiancé an irritated glance and then lightly cuffed him on the arm when she saw his wicked grin. “You’d like it if we had a murder to investigate, too, admit it.”
“We’ve all got umbrellas,” Wiggins muttered. He still smarted from feeling just a bit guilty as he’d not worked as hard as the others on their last case. “And we’ve got boots. A bit of rain wouldn’t be a bother if we was doin’ somethin’ important.”
“We really mustn’t wish for a murder just because it’s wet and we’ve all been trapped inside,” Mrs. Jeffries admonished them. “We should be glad there’s been a few weeks of peace and quiet for Inspector Witherspoon. He deserves a bit of a rest.” Gracious, even as the words left her mouth she felt a right old hypocrite. She was no better than the rest of them: She’d love it if they had a nice, interesting homicide to sink their teeth into.
Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more crimes than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. Considering that only a few short years ago, he was in charge of the Records Room, everyone, including the inspector, was somewhat amazed by his accomplishments. What very few people, including the inspector, didn’t know was that he had substantial help from his household with each and every murder he solved.
It had all begun a few years back when Smythe had returned from Australia. He’d stopped in to pay his respects to his old employer, the inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. When he’d arrived at the house, he’d found her dying. She had a house full of servants, but the only one trying to take care of the poor woman had been a young footman, Wiggins.
Smythe had taken one look at the situation, fired everyone but Wiggins, and sent for a doctor. But even the best physician couldn’t work miracles and Euphemia Witherspoon was too far gone to save. Before she died, she’d made Smythe promise to stay on in the house for a little while and look out for her only relative, her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon. She was leaving him this huge house and enough money so he’d never have to work another day in his life. Smythe, who’d made a huge fortune of his own in Australia, had agreed to stay and see the fellow decently settled with a competent staff.
The first one to be hired had been Mrs. Jeffries. She was the widow of a Yorkshire policeman. She’d come to London to take advantage of everything the city had to offer and had thought to do a bit of traveling. But after just a few short weeks, she’d tramped through every museum numerous times, attended a half dozen concerts, and seen every play in the West End. She was bored to tears. Then she’d spotted an advertisement as a housekeeper for a policeman. More curious than anything else, she’d gone to the address listed, interviewed with Inspector Witherspoon, and had been offered the position. She had had to remind him to check her references.
Mrs. Goodge had come along next and then Betsy had collapsed on their doorstep. When she’d recovered, she’d taken the position as the maid.
But even though it had started with his return, it had really been Mrs. Jeffries who had steered the household staff into helping the inspector. On their first case, she’d been very subtle and they’d not figured out what she was doing till the case was solved. The horrible Kensington High Street murders had gotten Witherspoon out of the Records Room and into a tiny office at the Ladbroke Road Police Station, where he was and remained to this day the only policeman of detective inspector rank. In the years that followed, Witherspoon solved one baffling case after another and owing to his amazing success, he was frequently called to Scotland Yard and other districts around the city when there was a particularly baffling homicide to be solved.
“We’ll all get enough peace and quiet when we die,” the cook responded tartly. “And that experience is coming sooner rather than later for some of us.”
Mrs. Goodge had worked for some of the finest families in all of England before coming to the inspector’s household. She had a vast network of old associates, colleagues, and friends whom she could call upon for information when they had a murder to solve. There was also the small army of delivery boys, rags and bones dealers, mush-fakers, laundrymen, and fruit vendors who trooped in and out of the house on a daily basis. She kept them well supplied with tea and treats while finding out everything there was to know about those who ended up as victims or suspects in the inspector’s cases. She never had to even leave the kitchen to do her part in their investigations.
Mrs. Jeffries frowned at the cook. “You mustn’t talk like that. You’ve plenty of good years left.”
“And you’re lots younger than Luty Belle,” Wiggins added. He was referring to their good friend, an elderly American eccentric named Luty Belle Crookshank. She and her butler, Hatchet, were special friends of the household and frequently helped on the inspector’s cases.
“That’s kind of you, lad. But there aren’t that many years between the two of us old hens. Besides, Luty told me yesterday that if we didn’t get another case soon, she’d have to shoot someone herself. Mind you, she was looking at Hatchet when she made that remark.”
“She wasn’t serious, though.” Betsy laughed. “She would be lost without Hatchet. He’s more than just her butler; he’s her dearest friend.”
Under the table, Smythe grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. He and Betsy had been through their own trials and troubles but come October, they’d be man and wife.
“Better a friend than a false sweetheart,” Wiggins murmured, more to himself than the others. He’d had his heart trampled on during their last investigation and he was still hurting over the matter. One of the reasons he wanted another case was because he felt as if he’d let them all down. When everyone else in the household had been solving a double homicide, he wasted his time trailing after a deceitful young woman who was more interested in free lunches and teas than she’d been in him. It still smarted.
“What did you say, Wiggins?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Nothin’.” He gave the cook a cheerful smile. He knew she’d been worrying about him and he wasn’t having any more of that. At her age, the less aggravation there was in her life, the better and he wasn’t going to be mooning about the place anymore, thank you very much.
Mrs. Jeffries looked toward the far wall. The kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens, like many kitchens in this part of London was built just below ground, so that the window literally faced out onto the pavement. Through the rain splattered pane, she saw the wheels of a hansom pull up in front of the house. “That might be Inspector Witherspoon.” She got to her feet and headed for the back stairs.
But when she reached the front door, it wasn’t the inspector but a constable she didn’t recognize.
He nodded respectfully. “Mrs. Jeffries?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Constable Wisden. Inspector Witherspoon asked me to stop by and let you know he’d be late coming home. He’s been called out on a case and he didn’t want his household to worry.”
“Thank you, Constable. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?” Witherspoon was rarely called out this late in the day unless it was serious so she was determined to find out what she could from this young man.
“No ma’am, I’m on my way to the Yard with some evidence, so I can’t stop in, but I thank you for the invitation.” He nodded again and started to turn.
“Did the inspector say what time he’d be home?” she asked quickly.
“No ma’am, but as it’s a murder, I expect he’ll be quite late.”
“Oh dear, that’s dreadful. I do hope he didn’t have to go too far in this awful weather,” she tried again.
“I’m afraid he did, ma’am.” The constable smiled sympathetically. “He’s been sent to Acton. Paddington Division has requested his help. He’s gone to Humphreys House on Linton Road. Good day to you, ma’am.”
“Good-bye, Constable, and thank you for delivering the message.” She closed the door, charged down the hall, and raced down the staircase. For a woman of late middle age with both arthritis and a touch of rheumatism in her knees, she could move fast when the situation called for it.
Having heard her thundering down the stairs, the others rose to their feet as she burst into the kitchen. “We’ve a murder,” she announced. “And it’s bound to be an important one. It’s out of our inspector’s district.”
Metropolitan police divisions were very competitive with one another and wouldn’t have asked for Witherspoon’s assistance unless someone had put pressure on them to make the request. That meant someone at Scotland Yard had wanted Witherspoon on the case.
“There’s no time to lose,” she continued. “The inspector is already on his way there, so you two”—she looked at Wiggins and Smythe—“had best get cracking.”
Both of them were already moving toward the coat tree. “Where is it?” Smythe asked as he grabbed his heavy black overcoat and tossed it over his arm.
Wiggins slipped into his jacket, grabbed his hat, and reached into the brass stand for his umbrella. “Do I have time to put my boots on? They’re just by the back door.”
Smythe nodded. “Bring mine as well.” He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “Should I risk going to Howards for the carriage?” Howards was the livery where the inspector’s carriage and horses were stabled.
“No, there isn’t time.” She didn’t have to tell them what to do once they arrived at the murder site. They understood what needed to be done. “Take a hansom. Do you need any money?”
He grinned and shook his head. He knew that the housekeeper had only asked that question to keep up appearances. Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge thought he was just a simple coachman. He was rich as sin but the only people in the household who knew it were Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy. He’d never meant to keep the others in the dark; it’s just that when he’d first come back from Australia he’d not planned on staying at the Witherspoon household very long. But everything had happened so quickly that by the time he should have gone, they’d started solving murders and he’d begun to hope that Betsy had feelings for him. By then, it was too late to tell them about his wealth.
He’d told Betsy about his money when they became engaged and Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out on her own. One day he’d tell Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge, but he’d wait until the right moment. Sometimes feelings were hurt if your friends thought you’d deliberately kept a secret from them.
“This is the house, sir.” Constable Barnes deftly opened the umbrella and held it up as the inspector stepped down from the hansom cab. The constable was a craggy-faced veteran with over twenty-five years on the force. His complexion was florid, his posture rigid as a post, and beneath his helmet was a headful of curly gray hair. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but he kept the umbrella over them as he paid off the cab. He turned and stared at a six-story redbrick house. “It’s huge.”
“Of course it is.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “And no doubt it’s owned by someone influential and rich.” The inspector was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, a long, rather bony face, and deep-set hazel eyes.
“Plenty of property as well. It’s set back from the road a goodly ways. That doesn’t come cheap in any part of London,” Barnes added.
Witherspoon stepped out from underneath the umbrella and started toward the house. “Right, we might as well get to it. At least the rain seems to be letting up.”
As was both their habits, each of them surveyed the property as they made their way to the front door. Barnes lifted his hand to bang the knocker when the door opened and a young police constable stuck his head out. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We’re having a hard time holding them.” He held the door wide, stepped back, and waved them into the foyer.
The constable’s words did not bode well, Witherspoon thought to himself. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he said as he continued his study of his surroundings. The house was as opulent inside as he’d thought it might be. The walls were painted in a pale peach shade with intricate white molding running along the top of the ceiling. A huge mirror with an ornate gold-painted frame hung on the wall and just beneath it was an oversized fern resting on a white marble foyer table. The floor was polished oak and directly overhead was a huge three-armed amber glass chandelier. At the end of the long hallway, a carpeted staircase the same shade as the chandelier, curved up to the upper floors.
“Police Constable Bishop, sir,” the policeman said quickly. “The body is upstairs sir, but the witnesses are all in there.” He jerked his thumb toward a closed door farther down the hall.
