Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (25 page)

“If it’s so honorable, how come you ain’t ever got hitched?” she shot back.

“Or maybe she was keepin’ it a secret,” Betsy murmured, then flushed when she glanced up and saw Smythe
grinning knowingly at her. She resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at him. Cheeky devil. But she felt ever so much better now that they’d cleared the air.

“Was that all you got out of the inspector?” Mrs. Goodge prodded. She really did want the lot of them to get a move on. None of her sources would say a word if they walked in and found half of London sitting at the kitchen table.

Mrs. Jeffries added a few more details about the inspector’s morning and then plunged in with her own tale. “I managed to get Roberta Seldon, Albert Parks’s former housekeeper, to tell me quite a bit,” she continued. “Apparently, she did quit. As Wiggins said, she hadn’t been paid. But, and this is the important part, she also told me that Parks didn’t come home right after the performance on Saturday evening. She was still awake at half past eleven. As a matter of fact, she heard him come in at around two
A.M.
”

“Don’t tell me ’e was out walkin’ along the ruddy river too,” Smythe said disgustedly. “Cor blimey, there’s more bloomin’ foot traffic on that embankment than there is on Oxford Street.”

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “Mrs. Seldon had no idea where he was, only that he didn’t come home that night when he claimed. There’s something else too. I’m not sure if it’s important or not. Mrs. Seldon said that when she went into his study to tell him she was leaving, he was locking something in his desk.”

“What was it?” Hatchet asked.

“She wasn’t sure; she only got a glimpse of it,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But she thinks it might have been a note of some kind. All she saw was a flash of white. It struck her as odd because Parks jumped ten feet when she walked into the room. Furthermore, he’d never locked that
desk before. Mrs. Seldon said he kept the keys right out on his desk all the time, so she was quite surprised when she suddenly found him locking it up tighter than the Bank of England. When Parks saw that she’d seen him, he gave her specific instructions not to touch it. Not that it mattered to her; she’d come in to tell him she was leaving his household.”

“Did he leave the keys out?” Hatchet asked.

“No,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He put them in his pocket. Mrs. Seldon was rather annoyed. She thought he might have been locking up an envelope of money and he did owe her her wages.”

“So he was lockin’ somethin’ up and he ain’t got an alibi,” Luty muttered.

“None of them have an alibi,” Betsy pointed out.

“One of ’em does,” Smythe said. He passed on the information Blimpey had given him about Willard Swinton.

“An opium den!” Mrs. Goodge’s eyes were as round as saucers behind her spectacles. “I can’t believe it. A respectable businessman like that.”

“It’s true,” Smythe said. “My source was sure of it. That’s one of the reasons the Hayden’s been doin’ so poorly the last few years. Swinton’s addicted. Every bit of money that comes in goes right up his nose. And I learned something else too,” he said, reaching for a another bun. In between bites, he told them about Hinchley’s servants. “Stealin’ from a dead man, they are,” he concluded.

“Shocking,” Mrs. Goodge said indignantly. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in days. “Absolutely shocking.”

Mrs. Jeffries cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got more to tell you about Parks.”

“Sorry, Mrs. J.,” Smythe said hastily. “Didn’t mean to steal yer thunder.”

“That’s quite all right; your comments were pertinent to the subject at hand,” she said. “But as I was saying, Mrs. Seldon asked Parks when she could expect to be paid her wages. She claims he got a ‘funny little smile’ on his face and then told her he fully expected to come into money very soon. Enough to pay her and the rest of his debts.”

“I don’t suppose he told the Seldon woman how or why he was comin’ into this money?” Luty asked.

“No,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He didn’t.”

“I think I know,” Betsy said. “From the theatre. The inspector said the play is sold out for a number of weeks.”

“I asked Mrs. Seldon that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And she was positive that wasn’t it. The day after opening night, Theodora Vaughan, Trevor Remington and Swinton had a meeting at Parks’s house. Mrs. Seldon overheard them talking. They were discussing what they were going to do if the play failed. They were fairly certain it would too.”

“Delaney wasn’t there?” Smythe asked.

“No, he wasn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “I find that most signficant.”

“They was sure that Ogden Hinchley was goin’ to give the play a bad review and kill it,” Luty murmured.

“But Hinchley didn’t give it a bad review,” Betsy pointed out. “At least not that any of them knew about. He was already dead by then. No one ever saw the review.”

“Oh, I believe someone did, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “The killer saw it.”

Mrs. Goodge cast a quick, frantic glance at the clock. “I’ve got a bit to say too, and as we’re still talking about
Albert Parks, I’d like to get on with it.” She forged right ahead. “Remember how I told you that Parks had been run off from a theatre in Manchester? Well, guess who it was that was behind gettin’ rid of him.”

“Ogden Hinchley,” Smythe said.

She nodded. “That’s right. Hinchley was only an actor back then, but he was a rich one. He put up most of the money to produce the play. Accordin’ to what I heard, he was so bad at it, that’s the only way Hinchley could ever get a part. But as he’d put up the money, he took quite an interest in the business end of things. When the money from the receipts didn’t match the head count at the door, Hinchley got suspicious. Parks was only a stage manager at the time, but he was the one that got the blame for the shortfall between the receipts and the head count. Hinchley run him off and what’s worse, every time the man tried to get another stage manager’s position, Hinchley would make sure whoever was fixing to hire Parks knew that he’d been accused of theft. As you can imagine, Parks’s reputation wasn’t worth much after that. That’s how he came to be a director. He couldn’t get work here in England, so he went to Germany and fell in with a theatre there. That’s where he learned this directin’ business. He was there for a goodly number of years.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Goodge,” Hatchet interrupted smoothly. “But how did Parks end up owning a home and having a staff? From what you’ve told us, he was unemployed and broke.”

“That’s why he come back to England,” she replied. “His granny died and left him the house and a bit of an income. Not really enough to live on—he still needed to work. Especially as he’d taken a loan on his home and put cash in Delaney’s play. He was hoping this play would be his…his…” She hesitated, trying to think of
the right word. “Entry back into the British theatre.”

“Looks instead like it might be ’is entry to the Old Bailey,” Smythe mumbled.

“Yes, it’s beginning to look that way,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Some of the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together. Or were they? From the back of her mind, something niggled her, but she firmly ignored it. This time, she wasn’t going to think the situation to death.

“You think he might be our killer?” Luty asked eagerly.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want to commit herself, but on the other hand, not committing herself might make the others believe she lacked confidence in them and her own powers of deduction. “I think we can assume that Hinchley was killed because he was a critic. He had the power of life or death over a play. The evidence against Parks is quite substantial. He, more than the others, appears to have had more to lose if Hinchley gave the play a bad review, and consequently, the play failed. It wasn’t just his reputation that was at stake anymore, it was his entire future.”

“But what about Mr. Delaney?” Betsy challenged. “He’d got a lot to lose.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t be ruined financially,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “He is marrying Miss Vaughan. She’s quite a wealthy woman. Furthermore, there’s a long and honorable tradition in the theatre of playwrights having both successes and failures. In other words, one failed play wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d never write another, more successful play. Especially if he was married to Theodora Vaughan.”

“And Willard Swinton’s got to know that no matter ’ow much money ’e gets, as long as ’e’s addicted to opium, it’ll never be enough,” Smythe said thoughtfully.

“Remington’s a pretty successful actor,” Luty added. “One bad play wouldn’t kill him. Even though he’d invested all his money, it wasn’t like he’d never be able to work again.”

“He could always tour the American West again,” Hatchet put in, just to annoy Luty. “I believe that in many of the more barbarian and desolate villages, the population is desperate enough to watch anything.”

“What d’ya mean, ‘again’?” Luty asked. She’d take him to task for that barbarian remark when she got him back in the carriage.

Hatchet smiled. “One of the bits of information I wanted to share today was that I learned that Miss Vaughan and Mr. Remington had toured the western part of the United States eighteen months or so ago. According to what I heard, they quarreled publicly through six states, two territories and several major cities. Apparently, by the time they reached San Francisco, they hated each other so much that Miss Vaughan, in a fit of rage, shot Mr. Remington. Luckily, she’s a better actress than she is a marksman, and she only wounded him slightly in the shoulder.” He shrugged. “A nice bit of gossip, I’m afraid, but hardly pertinent to the problem at hand.”

“Do you really think Parks might be the one?” Betsy asked Mrs. Jeffries.

“I’m not sure. But if the inspector manages to find a constable or a watchman that saw Delaney and Remington walking along the river on the night of the murder, then I don’t think there’s anyone else it could be.” She honestly didn’t know what to think. On the last case, she’d ignored the obvious and run herself in circles without coming up with the right answer. She didn’t want that to happen again. “But sure or not”—she got to her feet—“we’ve got to keep at it.”

They all looked at her expectantly. For a moment, her mind went blank. But she recovered quickly. “Betsy, why don’t you have another go at Rose and find out why Theodora Vaughan kept her divorce a secret.” She looked at Smythe, but he was getting to his feet as well. “I’ve got a few things to chase up,” he said. “There’s still a few pubs I need to do over near the ’ayden.”

“I’ve got a banker or two I need to pester,” Luty added. “I’m determined to find out about that loan Parks got on his house.”

“I’ll help you, madam,” Hatchet said.

Mrs. Goodge breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as they all got up. Then the back door opened and pounding footsteps sounded in the hall.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Wiggins yelled breathlessly, “but I was on to somethin’.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Is there any tea left?” Wiggins dashed toward the table. “I’m parched.”

“Listen, boy,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “You pour yourself a cup and then clear out. I’ve got people comin’ and I don’t want you hangin’ about puttin’ your oar in.”

“But I’m hungry,” he protested. “I didn’t ’ave time to eat.”

“Here, then.” The cook slapped a slab of beef between two slices of bread and handed it to him. “Now, get off.”

“But I want to tell ya want I learned.” Unable to help himself, he jammed a bite of the sandwich in his mouth. “It’s about Hinchley’s servants. I think they’ve been robbin’ the man blind, or they would be if ’e wasn’t already dead…”

“We already know about that,” Smythe said kindly.

“But…but…”

“It’s all right, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to go
out to the garden to have a good think. “You’ve done quite well, but we are in a bit of a hurry. Mrs. Goodge needs the kitchen.”

“But what about…”

“Go up and have a rest,” Betsy advised. “We’ll fill you in later on what all we’ve learned.”

Mrs. Jeffries sat on the bench and gazed blankly at the grass. Her conscience was bothering her. She wondered if the others had observed what she’d done on this case. So far, none of them had said anything, but then again, perhaps they wouldn’t even if they’d noticed.

It hadn’t been intentional. Had it? Had she deliberately kept information from the inspector so that she could solve the case first? She honestly didn’t know. She hadn’t realized she’d even done it until today at lunch when he’d told her about how shocked he was to learn that Remington and Theodora Vaughan had been husband and wife.

She’d known about the marriage. She hadn’t passed that bit on to him. She’d meant to, she really had. But somehow the time hadn’t been right.

She forced herself to think back to the beginning, to try to remember what she’d told the inspector and, more important, what she hadn’t.

But it was no use. She was in such a muddle, she simply couldn’t remember. She thought she was getting worse too. Just a few minutes ago she’d forgotten to tell the others something else she’d done today. She’d talked Roberta Seldon into going to Scotland Yard to see Inspector Witherspoon. Why hadn’t she told the others that? Was it because she was afraid that if she told everyone everything and then didn’t solve this case, she’d be humiliated?