Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (14 page)

“I'm sure she was,” the inspector replied. “She mentioned she went to India in 1871 with a cousin. She'd have been married within a few years or she'd have come home. At least that's the impression I got when I spoke to Lady Cannonberry about the women who went out there. But we'll confirm the dates of Mrs. Rayburn's marriage and the date her husband died.”

“You're thinking Filmore might have been blackmailing her?” Barnes asked. “That she might have had an illicit relationship with this Nigel person and he managed to get hold of this evidence?”

“That's possible.” Witherspoon frowned. “But if that were the case, why kill him now? She's widowed, so her late husband certainly isn't going to complain about her behavior.”

“There might be other reasons she'd not want that kind of news spread all over London,” Barnes pointed out. “According to the other ladies, she's wanting to get on some committee at the Royal Horticultural Society, and a scandal might put an end to it.”

“I'd like to say that no one would kill for such a trivial reason, but it's not true—people kill for the most ridiculous reasons all the time.” He put the letter in the box and picked up the set of keys. “If we're very lucky, these might be the spare keys to the shop.”

“And if we're not lucky, sir, we'll simply have to break into the place. We've got to keep searching, sir. If Filmore
was a blackmailer, she might not have been his only victim.”

*   *   *

The morning meeting was over and the others had gone out “on the hunt.” Mrs. Jeffries had dashed upstairs to do the inspector's bedroom and then hurriedly dusted the drawing room and his study. Phyllis had cleared up the breakfast things from the dining room before leaving for the shops in Bayswater and Mayfair.

Mrs. Jeffries put the feather duster and her workbox in the cupboard under the staircase and hurried down to the kitchen. She was going to have it out with the cook once and for all.

When she came down the stairs, Mrs. Goodge was pulling her scones out of the oven. Mrs. Jeffries steeled herself for a confrontation and moved toward the table. There was a sharp knock on the front door. “I'll get it.” She turned and retraced her steps. She hurried down the hall to the front door and flung it open.

A young man dressed in a rather tatty-looking, old-fashioned green footman's livery, complete with white leggings beneath his tight, knee-length trousers, gave her a toothy grin. “Are you Mrs. Jeffries?” he asked. When she nodded, he handed her an envelope. “This is for you, ma'am.”

“Who is it from?” she asked. The only thing written on the outside of the envelope was her name.

“Someone at St. Thomas' Hospital, ma'am. My mistress was just there, and as we live close by, one of the doctors asked her if we could get this to you.”

She dug in her apron for a sixpence and handed it to him. “For your trouble, young man.”

“Thanks, ma'am.” He took the coin, nodded politely, and leapt down the stairs and onto the back rail of a huge, black carriage.

Mrs. Jeffries tore open the envelope, yanked out the note, and eagerly read it.

Dear Mrs. Jeffries,

If it is at all possible, I would like you to come and see me as quickly as you can. It is about the inspector's latest case. Unfortunately, I'm on duty and cannot come to you.

Best regards,

Bosworth

Dr. Bosworth must have something important to tell her; he wasn't the sort of person to waste either of their time. Stripping off her apron as she walked, she hurried back to the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge's melancholy would just have to wait.

“Mrs. Goodge.” She rushed to the coat tree. “I've got to go out. Dr. Bosworth has sent me a note. He wants to speak to me about the case.”

The cook, who was brushing melted butter on the top of the scones, paused. “Did he do the postmortem?”

“That should have been done by Dr. Procash. But Dr. Bosworth must know something important. I should be back before our afternoon meeting.”

“Right, then, I've got a source coming by in a few moments. Is there anything you need me to do while you're
out?” When everyone was on the hunt, both the cook and the housekeeper took over as many of the household chores as possible.

“No, we should be alright.” She put on her bonnet and grabbed her purse and gloves off the top of the pine sideboard. “I'll be back as quick as I can, but it's already past eleven and Dr. Bosworth might not be available right away, so if I'm not back by the time the others get here this afternoon, start the meeting without me.”

“Of course,” she agreed as the housekeeper disappeared down the corridor to the back door.

Mrs. Goodge put down her pastry brush and set about making a fresh pot of tea. No matter how miserable she felt, if one of her sources did show up, she was determined to be ready. Her past sins were no excuse for her to neglect her present duty.

Someone did come, and less than ten minutes later, Miss Eliza Baker was sitting in the kitchen. She took a delicate nibble from the edge of her scone and then put the pastry back on her plate. She was a tall woman in her seventies with gray hair, blue eyes, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a nose that was made for looking down on people.

“I was surprised to get your note.” She stared at Mrs. Goodge curiously. “We haven't been in contact for years. Actually, I thought you were dead.”

“As you can see, I'm alive and well.” Mrs. Goodge tried to smile. She'd known within two minutes of letting the woman in the house that inviting her had been a mistake. She'd never liked Eliza, and from the way her guest was behaving, the feeling was apparently mutual.

“And still in service.” Eliza's cocked her head. “That's surprising. You're far older than I am and I retired years ago. Why on earth are you still working?”

Mrs. Goodge eyed her speculatively. She wasn't going to get anything useful out of the woman so she might as well say what she wanted. “I like working, it makes me feel useful. More importantly, it gives me the opportunity to be with people who genuinely care about me. Our generation had it hard—we weren't allowed to have a family and still keep our positions.”

Eliza gave her a pitying smile. “Really, you think your current situation is ‘family'?”

“I don't ‘think' it, I know it is,” Mrs. Goodge retorted. “I've a beautiful goddaughter, friends that are like sisters, and young people in the household who think of me as a grandparent. What's more, my employer has told me that I'll have a home here for the rest of my life. Not that I would need it as I've plenty saved and could take care of myself if I had to.”

She laughed. “How quaint. You work for a policeman, don't you?” She looked around the well-furnished kitchen.

“Quite a successful one as well. Not only that, but he has plenty of money, and having not been raised in the upper class, he treats his servants like human beings. I understand that since you've retired, you're living with your nephew and his wife in Shepherds Bush. How many children do they have?”

Eliza's smile disappeared. “Three and my nephew is an estate agent. He's very successful. They've put him in charge of the West Kensington office.”

“How good of you to help out. I'm sure it takes a great strain off the mother.”

“Why did you invite me here?” Eliza got up and put her hands on her hips. “You never liked me and I most certainly never liked you.”

“You went to India with Major Kirkwood and his family and I wanted to ask you some questions.” There was no reason not to tell the truth; Eliza Baker wouldn't be darkening her door again. “So sit yourself down and finish your tea. I happen to know you'll do anything to have a few hours away from your nephew's home.”

“Who told you that?” But she sat back down.

“Does that matter? I know what your life must be like, and oddly enough, even though we weren't friends, I do have some sympathy for you and all the other women of our generation who got thrown on the scrap heap.”

“I wasn't thrown on a scrap heap,” she cried, but her eyes were pooling with tears.

“Get off your high horse, Eliza. You were sacked just like I was when they got someone younger and cheaper to cook their meals. You spent half your life at the Kirkwood home and they sent you packing without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“You were sacked?” Eliza picked up the scone, took a bite, and swallowed. “Really? But you were, still are, a wonderful cook.”

“I was told I was too old and shown the door. But luckily, I landed here. I'm sorry you had to go to your nephew's home. I'm sure it isn't pleasant.”

“It's not that bad.” She shoved the rest of the scone in
her mouth, chewed hungrily, and swallowed. “Eleanor, that's my nephew's wife, is a decent sort and I do what I can to help, but it's hard and I always get the feeling I'm not doing enough.”

“I'll wager you do plenty,” Mrs. Goodge said softly.

“I'm only there because Paul, he's my nephew, feels he ought to do his Christian duty, not because they really want me.” Eliza's lip trembled and she looked down at her hands.

“What about the children?”

Eliza lifted her chin and brushed at her eyes. “They're really quite lovely. Edna and Jane, they're the twin girls, they're very sweet. When the weather's good, I take them to the park, and Enoch, he's their oldest, he's a smart lad. We read together every afternoon when he gets home from school.”

“It doesn't sound as if the children think you're there because of Christian charity. I'll bet they love you being there.”

Eliza smiled shyly. “I like to think so. I want to feel that I'm not just a burden, but genuinely helping.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, I know I was rude when I first arrived, but honestly, I've always been so intimidated by you that I didn't know what to think when I got your note. How did you find me anyway?”

“Ida Leacock.” Mrs. Goodge grinned. “She knows everything that goes on in this city.”

“Oh my gracious, I haven't seen her in years.” Eliza laughed. “She obviously hasn't changed one whit. Even when we were all in service together, she always knew every little thing that went on.”

“She was and still is a good source of gossip,” Mrs.
Goodge said. “And she knows where so many of us ended up.”

“Really, did she ever say what happened to Martha Smathers?”

“She got married and went to Canada,” the cook replied. For the next ten minutes, the two women spoke of the past, of their old colleagues and friends, who had emigrated, who had married, and who had died.

“I'm glad that Ida has done well for herself,” Eliza said. “Mind you, her being such a gossip was probably a help to her in business and now she owns three newsagents shops.”

“Gossip is only bad if it's mean or malicious.” Mrs. Goodge pushed the plate of scones closer to her companion and nodded for her to help herself. “Speaking of gossip, when you were in India, did you ever hear anything about Helena Blackburn, she became Helena Rayburn, or Isabelle Martell, I don't know what her maiden name might have been.” She made a mental note to try and find out. She had other sources coming in the next few days, and she didn't want to miss learning something useful because she didn't know the Martell woman's maiden name. “I believe they were in Madras at the same time you and the Kirkwoods were in India.”

Eliza shook her head as she popped another scone on her plate. “Oh dear, I'm afraid I can't help you there. Major Kirkwood was stationed in Bombay and that was miles away.”

“How about Chloe Attwater or Thea Stanway?”

“Thea Stanway?” Eliza repeated. “I didn't know she'd been in India.”

“You know her?”

“I know of her,” Eliza corrected. “She's a dreadful busybody. My nephew Paul had a client he was trying to find a suitable flat to purchase. A nice elderly woman named Mrs. Gilchrist. Thea Stanway butted her nose in, and no matter what flat Paul found, Mrs. Stanway found fault with it. The one the poor woman ended up buying was dreadfully overpriced and had been owned by a policeman's widow. It was the most unsuitable of the lot—it was cold, damp, and on the top floor of a four-story building.”

*   *   *

“Mrs. Jeffries, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, I got called into the ward.” Dr. Bosworth, red-haired and with a long, bony face and deep-set hazel eyes, took her arm and led her down the hall toward his office.

“I've only been here a few minutes,” she fibbed. In truth, she'd been sitting in the lower-ground-floor corridor near the good doctor's office for over a half hour. But it was one of the few quiet spots at St. Thomas' Hospital, so she hadn't minded. It gave her a chance to think.

“I'm glad you sent a porter to let me know you were here,” he said as he ushered her into his small office. “I was walking the corridors upstairs looking for you.”

“I've been here before and I know where your office is,” she said.

The small room hadn't changed much since she was last there. Behind his desk were two tiny windows that provided very little light; a tall cabinet filled with jars, boxes, bandages, and medical equipment flanked one side of the door; and a bookcase filled with medical books, stacks of periodicals, and topped with what she thought might be a
human jawbone was on the other side. Bosworth swept a stack of files off the straight-backed chair in front of the desk and nodded for her to sit.

“But's it has been a good while since you've needed my opinion on one of the inspector's cases,” he complained with a tight smile.

Dr. Bosworth was one of the household's “special friends.” He'd helped them on numerous other cases. He'd spent a number of years in San Francisco working and studying with an American doctor. His time there had convinced him that one could tell a great deal about a crime by studying the size and shape of both gunshot and stab wounds. “I was beginning to think you'd found someone else to assist you and no longer needed me.”