Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time, page 9
part #25 of Mrs Jeffries Series
“Neither did mine,” Betsy agreed. “All I heard was that he had a houseful of relatives living with him and that he didn’t scrimp on food.”
“Was that all you learned?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot.
“Come to think of it, I did find out something else.” She laughed self-consciously. “Francis Humphreys pays Pamela Humphreys’ food bills as well as supplying her with coal. Sorry, that’s the sort of detail we’re not supposed to forget.”
“Good heavens, is the woman destitute?” Hatchet asked.
“No, she’s got a small income of her own,” Betsy replied. “Apparently, Francis Humphreys began paying their grocery bills when her husband was alive, and when he passed away, he just kept on paying.”
Witherspoon trudged up the steps of Upper Edmonton Gardens. He was deeply depressed. When he and Constable Barnes had parted, the constable had been cheerful and assured Witherspoon that he’d drop by every morning for a quick cup on his way to Fulham. He’d also promised to stop by occasionally in the evenings as well.
He opened the door and stepped inside. His spirits lifted a bit as he saw Mrs. Jeffries standing by the bottom of the staircase. At least everything in his world hadn’t changed; there were still some comforts one could depend upon. “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries.”
“Good evening, sir.” She reached out to take his hat. “How was your day?” She put the bowler on the peg.
“Not as good as some that I’ve had.” He slipped off his overcoat and handed that to her.
“Oh dear, sir, what’s happened?”
“Constable Barnes has been reassigned,” he said glumly. “We got called to Yard this morning and told the news.”
Alarmed, she gaped at him. She was so stunned it took a moment to find her voice. “Gracious, sir, that’s terrible. Why on earth was he reassigned?”
“He’s not done anything wrong,” the inspector said quickly. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what was it?” She couldn’t believe this was happening. It couldn’t come at a worse time.
“My understanding is that the Home Office seems to think other officers could benefit from working with me and studying my methods.” He tried to put as positive a face on it as possible. “But honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, my ‘methods,’ so to speak, are rather well known.”
“Where has Constable Barnes been assigned?” She struggled to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Fulham.” He sighed deeply. “But he has promised to stop by in the mornings on his way into town.”
Mrs. Jeffries brought herself under control. “Well, sir, not to worry, I’m sure you’ll handle the change quite readily. Shall we go into the drawing room? No doubt you could use a nice glass of sherry.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Witherspoon said earnestly as he followed her down the hallway. He settled himself into his favorite armchair while she fixed their drinks.
“Do you know who your new constable will be?” She handed him his glass and sat down on the settee.
“A young man named Lionel Gates.” He took a quick sip. “He is related to Inspector Nivens. He’s his nephew.”
“Inspector Nivens,” she cried. “Did he arrange for this to happen?” She wouldn’t put such treachery past the man. Nivens had been trying to prove the inspector had help on his cases for a long time now. What better way than to saddle Witherspoon with one of his own relatives.
“He says not and I believe him.”
“You do? But he’s been trying to undermine you for years, sir,” she protested.
Witherspoon smiled wearily. “He’s not my favorite person, Mrs. Jeffries, but ever since our last case, he’s behaved decently. He even arranged the situation so that Barnes’ reassignment doesn’t start until tomorrow.”
She wanted to argue the point, to tell the inspector never, ever to trust Nivens, but she knew he’d not listen. Despite having solved over twenty-five murders, there was still a part of the man that was very naïve. “Constable Barnes was with you for the remainder of the day?”
“He was and he was a great help,” he said. “It will be difficult not having the constable close by during the day so I can discuss the case, but at least I still have you. It does so help me to clarify my thoughts when I can talk through the details of the investigation.”
“Of course, sir.” She forced herself to relax. “Being called to the Yard must have interrupted your day. Were you able to continue making progress?”
“Oh yes, as soon as we’d finished with Chief Inspector Barrows, we went right back to Humphreys House to continue taking statements. His niece, Miss Imogene Ross, was very upset about his death but she was very cooperative. She lives at Humphreys House but hasn’t been there very long. Apparently she had a very serious argument with Mr. Humphreys before he died.” He tossed back the last of his sherry and got up. “I’m suddenly very hungry.”
“Your dinner is all ready for you, sir,” she said. They went into the dining room. Mrs. Jeffries took his plate off the serving tray and put it on the table in front of him. “It’s one of your favorites, sir,” she said as she lifted the warming lid. “Roast pork, potatoes, and sprouts.”
“It looks delicious.” He tucked right in.
She gave him a few moments to get a bite of food in his stomach and then she asked, “What was the argument about, sir? The one between Miss Ross and the victim?”
“Oh that, well, it wasn’t very nice. People really should be careful what they say in the heat of anger—it can often come back to haunt them. I know it did poor Miss Ross. She was terribly upset when her uncle died.” He cut his meat and speared the slice onto his fork.
Witherspoon told her everything. Between bites of roast pork and brussels sprouts, he gave her all the details of his day. Her methods were subtle, but effective. As he talked, she’d shake her head in sympathy over how difficult his task had been, cluck her tongue disapprovingly at just the right moment, or sigh theatrically at his trials and tribulations.
When she went down to get his dessert, she told the others the bad news about Constable Barnes. They were as outraged and dismayed as she’d been.
“What do you mean the constable’s been reassigned?” the cook cried. “Are they allowed to do that?”
“Cor blimey, that’s bloomin’ awful,” Wiggins moaned. “What are we goin’ to do without our constable?”
Betsy slapped the log-shaped suet pudding on a dessert plate and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries. “This is terrible news, Mrs. Jeffries. I didn’t think this case could get any more complicated, but apparently, I was wrong. We rely on Constable Barnes to feed our inspector information that we can’t give him ourselves. What are we going to do now?”
“Don’t lose heart.” The housekeeper put the dessert plate on the tray and picked it up. “We haven’t lost him completely. The inspector said the constable has promised to stop by here every morning on his way to Fulham.”
Later that evening, Mrs. Jeffries cleared up the dining room. The inspector had taken Fred for a walk, Mrs. Goodge had already gone to her room, and Wiggins had borrowed the latest copy of The Strand magazine and gone upstairs. She put the dishes on the tray and took them downstairs. Betsy and Smythe were sitting at the kitchen table. The maid got to her feet and reached for the tray.
Mrs. Jeffries pulled back. “I told you I’d do the cleaning up. You and Smythe go up to the new sitting room and have some time to yourselves,” she insisted. “You’ve both worked hard today and I know you’ve wedding plans to discuss.” She’d also noticed the worried glances that Smythe had been giving Betsy.
“But Mrs. Jeffries, you’ve worked hard as well,” Betsy protested.
“We all have,” she agreed. “But you and Smythe need some private time together without the rest of us hearing every word. Besides, I can’t sleep anyway.”
“After hearing about us losing Constable Barnes, I don’t think any of us will have a restful night. Can you believe that rotten Inspector Nivens?” Betsy shook her head in disgust.
“Not to worry, love.” Smythe put his arm around her shoulders. “Like Mrs. Jeffries says, we’ll manage.”
“We certainly will,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “Now you two go on upstairs.”
“I’ll just lock up.” Smythe started for the back door. “The inspector is still out.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m quite capable of locking a door.” She shooed them out of the kitchen. “Go on, enjoy a few moments to yourselves.”
When they’d gone, Mrs. Jeffries took her time doing the cleaning up. The inspector and Fred came in and went to their respective beds. She ducked the last dish in the rinse water, put it on the rack, and hung the dishtowel on the railing to dry.
Then she took her keys out of her pocket, locked the back door, turned off the lamps, and went upstairs to make certain the front door was secured as well.
She went into the dark, quiet drawing room and sank down on the settee. She wasn’t one to borrow trouble, but she had the feeling this investigation wasn’t going to be an easy one. The murder was only two days old and already there were enormous difficulties: Dr. Bosworth hadn’t had access to the results of the postmortem, they had very few, if any, suspects, and worst of all, they’d lost Constable Barnes.
Mrs. Jeffries prided herself on getting information out of the inspector but she’d come to rely on the good constable. He not only gave them additional information, but he often acted as a conduit to get information to the inspector. But he will be stopping by in the mornings, she reminded herself.
Yet the real problem wasn’t the loss of the constable. It was the suspects. Generally, one found suspects among either people who hated the victim or people who stood to gain substantially by the victim’s death. In this case, Humphreys didn’t appear to have the sort of character to engender hatred. From what they’d learned thus far, he wasn’t malicious or mean with people, but he was controlling. Was that enough of a character defect to make someone wish you dead? On the other hand, even if he made his family “dance to his tune,” as Mrs. Goodge’s source suggested, Betsy’s information pointed to Humphreys being a generous man. He fed two households and took in relatives when they were unable to take care of themselves.
So what did it mean? Had he been murdered by someone who stood to gain from his death financially or by someone who hated him enough to kill him? Or perhaps it was something else altogether—perhaps the murderer felt threatened by him in some way. She got up and stared into the darkness. They might not know the identity of the killer, but it was someone who could appear at the doors of his rooms and not cause him to raise an alarm. Someone he knew. In other words, his murderer was either a close relative or a supposed friend.
And that was the problem, she thought as she moved toward the doorway to the hall. Most of his relatives and friends were sitting in his drawing room while he was being shot. Drat.
Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits had improved greatly when she went downstairs for breakfast the next morning. After tossing and turning most of the night, she’d finally decided that their only course of action was to do what they always did—investigate the victim and everyone who was close to him. This method had worked for them in the past and she had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be equally useful now.
Mrs. Goodge was at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. Samson, her mean-spirited yellow tabby cat was curled up on her lap. The animal raised its broad head and gave the housekeeper a dismissive glance. At the end of one of their previous cases, Samson had been rescued by Wiggins. His owner had been murdered, and as he was such an obnoxious animal the footman had known he’d be turned out or starved to death if he was left in his old household. So he’d brought Samson here. The cat and the cook had taken one look at each other and it had been love at first sight. Mrs. Goodge simply couldn’t understand why everyone else in the household stayed as far away from the feline as possible. She thought him the sweetest creature on the face of the earth.
“Come and have a cup with me,” the cook invited. “It’ll be a while yet before the others come down.”
But before Mrs. Jeffries could reply, they heard a knock on the back door. Samson, disturbed by the cook’s startled response, leapt off her lap while Mrs. Jeffries hurried down the hallway and opened the door.
“I hope I’m not too early.” Constable Barnes grinned broadly. “But I wanted to have a quick word with you and I don’t want to be late to my new assignment.”
“Do come in, Constable.” She opened the door wider. “There’s a pot of tea at the ready.”
By the time they reached the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge had him a cup poured and sitting on the table. “It’s nice to see you, Constable,” she said as she waved him into a chair.
“Likewise.” He slipped into his seat, picked up his tea, and took a drink. “Ah, that tastes good. I don’t care if spring is almost here—it’s still very cold in the mornings.”
“And it’s very good of you to stop in here on your way into town.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “We very much appreciate it.”
“I like keeping my hand in as well.” He laughed.
“Go on,” the cook encouraged. “What have you got for us?”
“Just a few bits of information you might not have found out from the inspector,” he began. “First of all, I had a quick word with the lads that did the house-to-house and as you’d expect, none of them saw or heard anything that afternoon.”
“That’s to be expected,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “It was raining so everyone was tucked up inside their houses. Even servants try to avoid going out in the wet unless they’ve no choice.”
“I also had a look at the postmortem report,” Barnes said. “I’m no medical man, but I’ve enough experience to know the important bits. The doctor only found one bullet in the victim, which implies he was killed instantly.”
Mrs. Goodge looked confused. “Really? Why?”
“Because the murderer would have fired a second shot if the first one hadn’t done the deed,” Barnes explained. He took another sip of his tea, swallowed, and then seemed to hesitate.
“What is it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“It’s nothing, really,” he demurred. “I can’t prove it and I really shouldn’t say anything, it’s just a feeling I’ve had ever since I saw the body.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Goodge encouraged. “You’ve had too many years experience to doubt yourself, Constable.”
“It was the wound in the man’s skull.” He grimaced. “There was something odd about it. But I can’t put my finger on what it is. I don’t want you to think I’m getting fanciful because I’ve been tossed off the case and sent to Fulham.”
“We’d never think that,” Mrs. Jeffries said staunchly.
“I appreciate your loyalty, Mrs. Jeffries.” He laughed. “But the first rule of any good policeman is to put your faith in facts, not feelings, and the fact of the matter is that the bullet hole in the man’s forehead was what killed him.” He glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “I’d best tell you the rest. You’ve got to make sure your lot does as much talking to Humphreys’ household servants as possible.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Is there any special reason? Haven’t you and the inspector already interviewed all of them?”
“No, we got called back to the Yard before I could finish and when we went back yesterday, there wasn’t enough time. I suspect that if Constable Lionel Gates is anything like his uncle, he’ll antagonize the servants the moment he opens his mouth.” He smiled wryly. “And we both know that angry housemaids and cooks don’t volunteer information. That’s why I’m going to rely on all of you to suss out what you can.”
“I’m flattered by your faith in us,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“But I did pick up another bit of information that the inspector didn’t find out and it might be important. Another one of Humphreys’ relatives had just moved in with him on the day of the murder. Joseph Leland Humphreys and his luggage had arrived that very morning.”
“Why doesn’t Inspector Witherspoon know this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“I thought he did,” Barnes replied. “I found it out from one of the maids but I didn’t realize until Inspector Witherspoon and I were parting ways last evening that he didn’t know about Joseph Humphreys. Just as he was walking away, he mentioned that aside from the servants the only people who lived in the victim’s house were Miss Ross and Mrs. Prescott. By the time I understood what he’d said, he was already gone.”
“And you think this fact might be important?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.
“I don’t know, but I do wonder why neither Mrs. Prescott nor Miss Ross mentioned that young Mr. Humphreys was now a resident.”
Constable Gates kept up a stream of chatter during the hansom ride to Humphreys House. Gates had arrived at Upper Edmonton Gardens only moments after Constable Barnes had departed. Witherspoon had introduced him to Mrs. Jeffries and then they’d caught a cab on the Holland Park Road. By the time they reached their destination, the inspector’s ears were ringing. Witherspoon leapt out of the cab and hurried to the walkway to the house.
Lionel paid the driver and then ran to catch up. “Shall I sit in on your interviews?” He was a few paces behind the inspector. “Or do you wish me to conduct my own interviews? As I mentioned on the drive here, I have read your preliminary reports.”
Witherspoon knocked on the front door.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” Lionel continued, “the reports are a bit on the thin side.”
Mrs. Eames opened the door. “Good day, Inspector, Constable.” She waved them inside. “Mrs. Prescott and Miss Ross are both in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Eames,” the inspector said. He had been going to ask Constable Gates to continue interviewing the household staff, but he thought better of that plan. “We’ll announce ourselves. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
