Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (11 page)

Smiling brightly, she walked up to the counter.

“May I help you, miss?” He was a short, chubby lad with thinning brown hair, deep-set blue eyes, and a lovely smile.

“I hope so,” she said softly. “I'm looking for an address, and to be frank, sir, I'm desperate. If I don't deliver this letter”—she yanked a cream-colored envelope out of her shopping basket—“I'll get sacked. The awful thing is, I remember the name of the household but only because there was a murder there. When I realized I couldn't remember what the mistress said, I thought I'd try the local shops and see if any of you could help me.”

“It must be the Rayburn house.” He nodded his head. “They're the only ones that's had a murder around here, and you're in luck, miss, I do happen to know their address. They're one of our customers and I deliver there three times a week. It's number 16 Bellwood Place. It's not far from here, two streets up, round the corner, and then the first left.”

“Gracious, you must be brilliant to remember all that.”

“I'm not brilliant.” He smiled shyly as a blush crept up his cheeks. “It's my job to know where our customers live, but it's not easy remembering the fastest routes to all their homes.”

“I'm sure it isn't. Thank you for your help, I'm ever so indebted, sir. The mistress would have been furious with me if I didn't deliver her invitation.” She leaned toward him. “She's only inviting Mrs. Rayburn to luncheon because of the murder, she pretends such things are beneath her, but she's curious about the whole thing.”

“You can't blame her for that. Everyone's interested in murder as long as it's not them or one of their loved ones that's the victim.”

“I know, but still, this kind of nosiness is a bit much, but the mistress won't be told. Even the master thought it was a bad idea, but she wouldn't listen to him.” She broke off and giggled. “She's dying to know anything about the Rayburn household.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the door behind the counter. “Well, I can give you a few tidbits to pass along. Like I said, I deliver there thrice a week, and last week, I overheard the Rayburn cook complaining about Mrs. Stanway.”

“Who is Mrs. Stanway?” Phyllis knew quite well who she was, but of course, she had to feign ignorance.

“She's one of Mrs. Rayburn's friends and one of our customers as well. That's the only reason I listened when the kitchen ladies were goin' on about her. It's no good listening to gossip about people you don't know, is it.”

“What were they saying about her?”

“It wasn't just her, it was another woman, someone who'd just come here from America, but I didn't know anything about her. She doesn't give us her business.”

“But they said something interesting about Mrs. Stanway?”

“Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything, it wasn't all that interesting. The cook was sayin' that Mrs. Stanway is the nosiest woman in London.” He broke off and grinned again. “Mind you, it sounds like your mistress could give Mrs. Stanway a good run for her money.”

Phyllis laughed.

“Mrs. Stanway's old nanny lives across the street from the Rayburn house,” he continued, “and both the cook and the scullery maids were natterin' on about how Mrs. Stanway spent hours peekin' out of the upstairs curtains and watching the people on the street. Now, I like a good gander as well as the next person, but I don't spend half me life gaping out the window.”

Phyllis was disappointed but forced herself to smile. This was hardly useful information. Spying on your neighbors was an old and honorable pastime in most neighborhoods, especially for bored upper-class women on duty visits to their old nurses. “Was that all they said?”

*   *   *

As soon as the three of them entered the Rayburn home, Barnes went downstairs to get Mrs. Clemment. He needed her to verify that the bloodied clothes belonged to Mrs. Rayburn.

Helena and the inspector continued on to the drawing room. Witherspoon took his bowler off as they went inside. “Mrs. Rayburn, may we sit down?”

She stalked to the marble fireplace and stood with her back to him. “I'm in no mood to be sociable, Inspector, so just ask your questions and then get out.”

“I know this must be difficult for you,” he began.

“Difficult?” She spun around to face him. “Do you
know what this is doing to me, to my reputation? It's been less than a day since that man was found dead in my conservatory, but already people are whispering behind my back and the gutter press has practically come out and accused me of murder.”

“I'm sure that's not true, Mrs. Rayburn,” he replied. He'd read the morning papers, and though her name had been mentioned, most of the articles consisted of the bare facts of the case.

“But now that you've found those clothes, you think I did it?”

“No, ma'am, we've not come to any conclusions about the identity of the murdered. We're simply doing our best to get to the truth. Now, if you answer a few more questions . . .”

“Why should I? Whatever I say you'll use against me.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a long, hard stare. “Why should I cooperate?”

“Because it's only by cooperating that we'll be able to catch the real killer,” he pointed out. “It's in your interest to tell me the truth and to answer all our questions honestly. Are you absolutely sure Mr. Filmore wasn't bringing you the specimen we found in your garden, the red vanda? You've admitted he had done something like that on a previous occasion.” He didn't know why that mangled plant kept bothering him, but it did, and somehow, finding out how it came to be in the Rayburn garden felt important.

“Yes, but I explained that he did it before because on that occasion he was bringing me an orchid he knew I wanted. I never mentioned a red vanda in front of him. I don't particularly like them, they're too gaudy and loud
for my taste. Thea and Isabelle are vanda enthusiasts. Both of them have vanda orchids, but theirs are, of course, a more common variety.”

The inspector thought about a comment his housekeeper had made. “Is it possible Mr. Filmore was bringing the red vanda to one of them? Perhaps he knew they were going to be here for luncheon?”

“That's most unlikely.” She stared at him coldly. “I'm hardly in the habit of discussing my social calendar with someone like Filmore.”

“He may have found out from another source.” Witherspoon shifted his bowler to his other hand. “It would at least explain why he was here.”

“I suppose it's possible.”

He decided to change tactics. “Mrs. Rayburn, we know those garments are yours, and even without testing, I'm fairly sure the stains are blood. Why did you say they weren't yours?”

She leaned back against the fireplace. “I was scared, Inspector, wouldn't you be?”

“Of course, but as I've said before, if you are innocent, the only way we'll catch the real killer is by everyone being honest. You, however, have prevaricated on at least two occasions, the first being your denial that the murder weapon was your property and the second just now when you claimed the apron, duster, and gloves weren't yours, either.”

Her hands balled into fists and she went a shade paler. “But as I've pointed out consistently, the keys to the conservatory have been missing for over a week, and anyone could have gotten in and taken those items. Obviously, that's exactly what the killer did. He used my property to
commit murder and wore my gardening clothes while he did it.”

“Why do you assume the killer is a ‘he'?” Thea Stanway asked. She stood in the half-open doorway. “I'm sorry, the front door was ajar so I just came inside. I think your constable has disappeared,” she said to Witherspoon as she advanced into the drawing room. “Really, Helena, you shouldn't assume women aren't capable of murder. All one has to do is read the newspapers to know that isn't true. Women kill all the time.”

*   *   *

Downstairs, Constable Barnes was back in the butler's pantry with Mrs. Clemment. “You're sure the garments are hers,” he asked for the third time.

“And for the third time, Constable, yes, I'm sure.” She tapped her hand impatiently against the scratched table- top. “That's hardly the sort of thing I'd make a mistake about. I've seen her wearing both the apron and the duster dozens of times.”

“We just need to make sure, ma'am,” he said. He'd repeated the question because he sensed that Mrs. Rayburn wasn't liked by her servants and they might be tempted to do what they could to get the lady of the house into a bit of trouble. “Can you tell me about the household's movements yesterday? I hate to put you through this again, but I need you to go over everyone in the household's movements yesterday between half ten and two o'clock.”

“Specifics will be difficult, Constable, but I can tell you generally where everyone was. As you know, Mrs. Rayburn was having a luncheon, and between that and the fact that it was raining outside, no one had a spare moment. The
rain makes our jobs more difficult. We've got to make certain the umbrella stands are properly polished and that the cloakroom and the water closet off the hall are clean and aired. Cook and the kitchen staff were doing the food, so all of them would have been in either the wet larder, the dry larder, or the kitchen.”

“They wouldn't have gone to the dining room?”

She shook her head. “No, the upstairs and downstairs maids were helping with the linens, the crystal, and the table setting. I was overseeing everything. The tweeny was doing the fetching and carrying between the butler's pantry and the dining room, but she had everything upstairs by half eleven so I sent her to take care of the cloakroom and the water closet.”

“So there were times when the staff was in and out of your sight, correct?”

“That's right, but I don't think any of the servants had a reason to murder Mr. Filmore.”

“And none of the staff went outside?” he pressed.

“No.”

“You seem very sure of that?”

“After you left yesterday, I asked all of them if they'd gone outside or if they'd seen anything from the windows,” she replied. “None of them had, they were too busy doing their jobs.”

“Were you surprised when Mrs. Rayburn went out?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Clemment glanced at the closed pantry door. “As I told you when you were here this morning, it was very unlike her to leave like that. She went out about half past ten, and frankly, Constable, I was so surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather.” She
sniffed. “The woman doesn't trust anyone to know their jobs, but I've been a housekeeper for over twenty years and I know how to set a proper table and how to oversee serving food. But she acts like we're a bunch of heathens that don't know the difference between a soup spoon and a fish fork.”

“And you've no idea why she left or where she went?”

“None and she's not the sort of person who'd appreciate her servants asking her to explain herself.”

“She returned right before luncheon,” he clarified. “That's what you said this morning.”

“That's right, she came back right before Mrs. Attwater and Mrs. Stanway arrived, so it must have been a few moments past twelve. But she went up to her room and stayed there until all three ladies were here. Which was surprising as well. I expected her to come down and check on the dining room, but she didn't. I thought it was because of her hair but that turned out not to be the case, either.”

“Her hair?”

Mrs. Clemment grinned broadly. “She doesn't like to go out in the damp because it makes her hair very curly. By the time she returned, her hair was as fuzzy around the edges as a wooly sheep so I thought she'd stayed in her room to try to fix it with that hair pomade she's so fond of, but when I went up to tell her the guests were here, it was still just as frizzy as when she'd come in . . .” She broke off and stared at him. “Oh dear, I forgot to tell that as well. I'm sorry, Constable, but this has been very upsetting, and frankly, it's made me entirely too forgetful. I ought to have told you about this yesterday.”

“What was it?”

“When I went into her room, she was sitting at her dressing table and she was drinking a glass of sherry.”

“I take it that was unusual behavior for her?”

“It is, she isn't much of a drinker, but wherever she'd gone and whatever she'd done had upset her and it wasn't because of her
hair.”

“Good luck with the chief, sir,” Constable Barnes said to Witherspoon as they walked into the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force.

“Thank you, Constable, but perhaps I won't need luck and the chief superintendent simply wants a progress report.”

“That's an optimistic view, sir.” Barnes leaned on the newel post as Witherspoon started up the stairs to the chief's office. “It's been less than forty-eight hours since we got the case, and they've already interrupted us and sent for you. Generally, the chief gives us a bit more time than that.”

Witherspoon shrugged and started up the stairs. “We'll see, Constable. Hopefully, I'll be down soon.”

Barnes waited until the inspector disappeared before he straightened, turned, and headed for the slightly plump policeman standing behind the counter next to the corridor.

“Still as stiff-backed and hard as when you was a lad.” Mike Talbot grinned at his old friend. “How come you don't seem to get any older, Barnes, while the rest of our lot is either on desk duty or out on a pension.”

Barnes laughed. “Clean livin', Mikey, and a nip of whiskey every night before bed. How have you been?”

“Right as rain.” Talbot glanced up the stairs. “I found out who put the fire under the chief superintendent and you're not goin' to believe it.”

Barnes' smile disappeared. Mike Talbot was one of his sources at the Yard and not given to exaggeration. “Who was it?”

“Sir Jeremy Sanders.”

“Isn't he one of the top advisers to the home secretary?”

“That's right. Sanders showed up here late yesterday afternoon and asked to see Barrows.”

“Are you sure he came to see him about our case?” Barnes pressed. For the life of him, he couldn't think of any connection between the murder of a plant seller and a top adviser to the home secretary.

“Yup, Barrows walked the fellow out and I was on duty when they came down the stairs. I heard every word they was sayin'. Sanders has got an even louder voice than our chief superintendent.”

Upstairs, Witherspoon stared in confusion at Chief Inspector Barrows. “I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not sure I understand?”

The chief inspector was a tall, bespectacled man with a fringe of dark hair that was constantly losing ground to an ever-increasing bald spot. He took his glasses off and
leaned back in his chair. “It's quite simple, Inspector, this is a very important case and we want it solved.”

“You mean you want it solved quickly?” Witherspoon said. That was generally what his superiors always wanted.

“No, no, no, you misunderstand me. Take as much time as you need to catch the killer. But this case must be your top priority. You mustn't waste any of your time on anything except this investigation.”

The inspector was tempted to point out that pulling him and Constable Barnes away from the Rayburn house in the middle of important interviews could be construed as a waste of time, but he wisely held his tongue. “Uh, yes, sir. We're making progress on the case.”

“Of course you are.” Barrows smiled broadly. “That's one of the reasons I'm glad you're on the case. You always solve them and your record has been duly noted by some very important people.”

Witherspoon didn't care about important people, but he did care that he was getting credit for something that didn't just belong go him. “I don't do it alone, sir. Constable Barnes and the other men from the station do an exemplary job. I couldn't solve anything without all of their help.”

Barrows got up and came around from behind his desk. “Yes, yes, yes, I'm sure that's true and it's good of you to give credit to your men.” He ushered the inspector toward the door and yanked it open. “But you must use any and all means to catch this terrible murderer. We'll give you whatever assistance you require. If you need more men, let me know and I'll make sure you get them.”

“There is one thing I need.” Witherspoon dug his heels into the linoleum floor to avoid being pushed into the hall.
“We've sent a request to the War Department for the victim's military file.”

“And you want my help to get it quickly.” Barrows nodded. “Right then, I'll see what I can do. Keep me informed, Inspector. Good day.” With that, he gave the inspector a gentle shove and then closed the door.

Witherspoon stood there for a long moment and stared at Barrows' closed office door. He didn't understand it, this was the first time he could recall where Barrows didn't nag him to solve the case quickly. That was most unlike the fellow. What was going on? Witherspoon shrugged; perhaps he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

*   *   *

Wiggins hadn't planned on coming to Mayfair, but he'd had no luck at any of the other women's homes. He'd hung around the Rayburn house for a good half hour then tried both the Stanway and the Martell properties. But no housemaids, footmen, or tweenies had so much as stuck a nose out the servants' entrances. He'd not wanted to try chatting up the shopkeepers or going to the pubs because he didn't want to intrude on either Phyllis' or Smythe's territory.

But he refused to go home this early in the day so he'd try his luck here. Chloe Attwater had been a guest at the Rayburn luncheon, so there was a chance he might learn something. But now that he was here, it seemed like a waste of time. He made a face as he studied the quiet street. Save for the occasional hansom cab or carriage trundling past, Webster Crescent was as quiet as a graveyard at midnight. He'd gone to the mews that ran along the back of the Attwater home first, but that was just as empty. He'd not seen so much as a door open.

“Well, sod this for a game of tin soldiers,” he muttered. “I might as well go back to the Martell or Stanway house.” Wiggins turned and retraced his steps. When he got to the corner, he saw a small figure dart out of the mews and race off toward the high street.

He took off, running to catch up with the lad. “Oy,” he called. “You there, can I talk to ya?”

“What do ya want?” The boy turned, put his hands on his hips, and then grinned. “Hey, Wiggins, what ya chasin' me for? I thought it was a copper after me.”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Wiggins was delighted to see that the fleeing figure was Kevin Nelson, a street lad who worked the area around Kensington Station and who'd also done errands and such for the Witherspoon household. “Have ya been doin' somethin' that would cause the police to chase ya? Our inspector wouldn't like that.”

Kevin laughed. He was a ginger-haired lad with a narrow, pale face and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. He wore a thin gray shirt frayed at the wrists, a pair of blue trousers with patches on the knees, and a pair of shoes so scuffed it was impossible to tell if they'd once been black or brown. “I just thought it might be coppers because there's naught but toffs 'round here, and when they see the likes of me, they usually set the constables on us. But I've got a proper reason for bein' 'ere. I've 'ad a steady job now for a month.”

“Doin' what?” Wiggins asked as Kevin fell into step next to him.

“Watchin' a house in Kensington for the lady that lives down there.” He turned and pointed toward Webster Crescent. “She's a right generous sort, too. Pays me a sixpence
every time I come here and I come twice a day to tell her what's what. Except for yesterday, I came three times yesterday and she give me a florin, can you believe it, a whole florin.”

Wiggins stopped in his tracks. “Who is this lady?”

Kevin had stopped, too. “Mrs. Attwater, she's a pretty lady, and she lives in one of the biggest houses on Webster Crescent. She meets me at the mews back of her house and pays me whether I've got anything to tell or not. Mind you, yesterday I had to go to the back door and get her 'cause she weren't expecting me. But I had news and I knew she'd want to hear it.”

*   *   *

“You're right, Constable, that certainly explains why Chief Superintendent Barrows is being so cooperative about our case.” Witherspoon nodded as the hansom cab pulled to the curb of an elegant street in Bayswater. “But now the question is why would Sir Jeremy Sanders care enough about Filmore's murder to make a special trip to Scotland Yard?”

“Constable Talbot didn't hear the why of it, sir. All he heard was Sanders nattering on to the chief superintendent about how you needed to stay on the case so the real killer would be caught.” Barnes opened the door and the two policemen stepped out. He paid the driver and then turned to join the inspector, who was checking his pocket watch.

“Too bad he didn't hear anything else,” Witherspoon frowned at his timepiece. “Oh dear, going to the Yard has put us behind. Let's hope Mrs. Martell cooperates and we can conduct this interview quickly. I want both of us with the lads when they search Filmore's flat and place of business.”

“I told Constable Griffiths to check with the landlady about the keys and then contact us so that we could be there.”

Isabelle Martell lived in a five-story red brick house with white stucco fronting on the ground floor. They climbed the broad steps and the constable banged the brass-plated knocker.

The door was opened and a tall, black-suited butler stared at them. “Yes, what do you want?” he asked.

Barnes was in no mood to tolerate snobbery from anyone, let alone a toff-nosed butler. He stepped forward aggressively. “We'd like to see Mrs. Martell.”

“I'm afraid—”

“And if she doesn't wish to speak to us now,” the constable interrupted, “we'll be quite happy to wait for her at the Ladbroke Road Police Station.”

The butler's eyes widened, but he stepped back and held the door open. “Please come in.”

As soon as they stepped inside, he led them down the thickly carpeted hall to a set of double doors. “You can wait in there,” he ordered. “I'll tell the mistress you're here.”

“She's not hard up for money, that's for sure,” Barnes muttered as he and Witherspoon entered the opulent drawing room.

The walls were painted a pale yellow, the Louis XIV furniture was upholstered in yellow and blue stripes, and a huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling. Heavy damask gold curtains draped the windows, and matching portraits of a cavalier and his lady were prominently displayed over the white marble fireplace.

“My butler says you wish to speak to me.” Isabelle
Martell swept into the room with her head high and a less-than-pleased expression on her face.

“Yes, ma'am, we didn't finish taking your statement yesterday,” Witherspoon said.

“But I've nothing more to say about Mr. Filmore's unfortunate death. The man supplied me with plants. I barely knew him.” She sat down in an armchair and folded her hands primly across her lap.

“Nonetheless, as someone who was on the premises when the murder might have occurred, we must take your statement.” The inspector glanced at the constable, who, upon realizing they weren't going to be asked to sit down, had moved to stand by the fireplace. Barnes pulled out his little brown notebook and pencil, flipped it open, and propped it on the mantelpiece.

Isabelle's eyebrows rose but she turned her attention back to the inspector. “Alright, do get on with it, Inspector. I've an appointment.”

“What time did you arrive for luncheon yesterday?”

“I don't know precisely, I didn't look at the clock. It was possibly fifteen or twenty past twelve.”

“Were any of the other guests present when you arrived?” Barnes asked.

She looked at him sharply, as though she couldn't believe he had the temerity to speak to her. “Yes, Mrs. Attwater was present and then Mrs. Stanway arrived. No, that's not right, Mrs. Stanway was already in the house when I came inside. She was in the cloakroom fussing with one of her gloves. She hadn't closed the door all the way, which, of course is just like Thea. She's so proud of those lace gloves
she's more interested in getting a speck of dirt off them than behaving properly.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around the immediate vicinity when you entered the house?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, but it was raining and I wasn't looking at the neighborhood.” She glanced at the gold and white French clock on the top of the armoire. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“Not much longer, ma'am,” the inspector said. “You were acquainted with Mr. Filmore, correct?”

“I've already told you he supplied me with plants.”

“Did you know him in India?” the constable asked softly.

Startled by the question, she drew back slightly. “Why on earth would you ask that? What does India have to do with it?”

The constable ignored her comment. “So you did know him?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“How well?”

“Not well at all.” She had regained her composure. “He was in the army,” she began, but Barnes, fully annoyed now because his knee hurt like the devil, interrupted.

“As was your husband,” he said smoothly.

“They were in the same regiment, but my husband was a major and Mr. Filmore was an enlisted man, a sergeant, I believe. My contact with him was minimal. I saw him occasionally when I helped take care of the wounded or the sick. Hiram Filmore acted as a kind of administrator for the infirmary so I did have some contact with him.”

“That's a big responsibility for an enlisted man, even a sergeant,” Witherspoon murmured.

“It was India, Inspector, and there were times when officers were in short supply. From what I understood, Mr. Filmore was both competent and responsible, so he took on many of the duties one would normally expect a higher-ranking officer to have.”

“When did you reestablish contact with Mr. Filmore?” Barnes looked up from his notebook to see her glaring at him. He gave her a bland smile.