Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (15 page)

“That's not true,” she replied. “You know how much we value your help.”

“Do you?” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together as he stared at her.

It took her a moment before she realized he was dead serious. “Dr. Bosworth, the only reason I haven't been banging on your office door asking for your help on the inspector's last few cases is because the manner of the victim's death hasn't required it. You're an expert in gunshots and stab wounds and these murders required nothing more than a general postmortem.” She wasn't sure what to say. Finally, she simply told him the truth. “Dr. Bosworth, you know you've been invaluable to our investigations. Luckily, the inspector's recent investigations didn't require your level of expertise. Now let's be honest here, you're a very busy man and I don't want to come calling upon your very unusual set of skills unless it's necessary.
I don't want to wear out my welcome and get to the point where you'll hide when you see me coming.”

He finally gave her a genuine smile. “Well, in that case, I won't take offense because I've not been involved. But I was beginning to get a bit put out about the matter. I am busy these days. But I do so like helping and I'll always make time to give you any assistance you need.”

“Thank you, Doctor, we're very grateful. Why don't you come to dinner soon? The others would love to see you.” She knew that Luty Belle would be happy to host them all for a summer supper.

“That would be lovely. Just let me know the time and the place and I'll be there. We'd better get down to business, I've more patients to see this afternoon.” He flipped open a file on his desk and took out several sheets of paper. “This is the postmortem report on one Hiram Filmore. Dr. Procash sent me a copy. In layman's terms, the cause of death is a deep, deep cut to the heart muscle. Dr. Procash called me in to take a look at the wound and that's why I've called you here.”

“I take it there was something odd about it,” she guessed.

His homely faced creased in a frown. “Yes, there was, but it's the sort of thing I couldn't swear to in court. It looked as if the tip of the shears, which is very rounded, was not only shoved through the heart at the precise point where it would do the most damage, slicing through the aorta to the pulmonary, but once the killer shoved it inside, it appears as if the end of the weapon was used to . . . well, gouge the wound. That's the only way I can describe it.”

“When you use the term ‘gouge,' do you mean the murderer twisted the tip once it was inside the poor man's heart?”

He nodded. “That's what we both think, but again, it's
the sort of situation which doesn't make any sense. The wound in and of itself would have caused death in a matter of minutes.”

“So gouging the wound wouldn't have speeded things up a bit?” She swallowed uneasily at the idea of someone doing such a thing.

“No, the first strike would have killed him quickly. It was a very precise wound, almost surgical. At least that's both our opinions. But that's not the only thing that was odd about the body. We both examined the head wound and came to the conclusion he was indeed unconscious when death occurred. Filmore was struck twice, not once. From the size of the impressions on both head wounds, either of them would have rendered the fellow unconscious.”

“So why strike him twice if the first one did the job?” she asked.

Bosworth shrugged. “I don't know, perhaps the killer was enraged about something and just kept hitting the victim. You know I'm the police surgeon for K District and I've done a number of postmortems. Unfortunately, even with the best of intentions, some criminals die because they've been involved in altercations with the police.”

“What are you getting at, Doctor?”

He leaned toward her. “From the size and shape of Hiram Filmore's head wounds, my guess is that they were made with a police truncheon or something shaped very much like one.”

“A police truncheon? Gracious, are you certain?”

“One can never be absolutely sure, but I took very careful measurements and that's my best estimate. I don't know if that is important, but I wanted you to know.”

“Would there have been a lot of blood?” she asked.

“Yes, the heart would have kept pumping for several minutes after the initial strike.” He put the paper back on his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “So I leave you to it to make some sort of sense of this. I know I can't make heads nor tails of it.”

*   *   *

Octavia Wells laughed merrily and poured a glass of wine. “Now don't look at me like that, Ruth. It's past three so a nice claret is perfectly acceptable and I'm going to pour you one as well. I'll have my driver see that you get home safely. But I've not seen you in ages and I want to celebrate the occasion. Besides, this is an utterly delightful vintage.” She poured the wine and handed Ruth her glass.

“Really, I shouldn't, but well, you're right, we've not seen each other for a long time.” She took a sip and then grinned at her friend. “You're right, this is delightful.”

Octavia was a short, plump, middle-aged redhead with sparkling brown eyes, a perfectly unlined complexion, and a sunny disposition. She was rich, flamboyant, and a staunch supporter of women's rights.

“I know I've not been in London since before Christmas”—Octavia flopped down on the chair across from Ruth—“but I simply adore traveling. What have you been up to? Are you still seeing that charming police inspector, the one who has solved so many cases?”

“I am.” Ruth put her claret on the side table. “As a matter of fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here.” She knew it would be foolish to try and hide her true intentions from Octavia. The woman might appear to be a flighty socialite with nothing in her head but ball gowns and parties, but
nothing could be farther from the truth. She was smart, organized, and the chief fund-raiser for the London Women's Suffrage Society. “I was hoping you would know something about the people involved in his current case.”

“You mean the one where the orchid hunter was stabbed in Helena Rayburn's conservatory?”

“Orchid hunter? So you have heard of him?”

“Indeed I have. He procured some orchids for Dolly Trainer, and he charged her so much money she complained about him for days afterward. But you're more interested in Helena, aren't you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Helena Rayburn is a dreadful snob,” Octavia interrupted. “The gossip I've heard is that when she came back from India after her husband died, she ran her sister-in-law out of the Rayburn home by browbeating the poor thing until she went off to live with some distant cousin in Newcastle. She and Isabelle Martell may be good friends, but they're highly competitive with one another.” She laughed. “Helena generally wins the top prize at that gardening club they're both involved in, and of course, Isabelle responds by buying even better specimens than Helena. The word for this year's competition is that Isabelle is going to win the blue.”

“But I heard that Isabelle isn't particularly interested?” Ruth picked up her wine and took another sip. “That she only participated in the Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society for social reasons and to be with her friends.”

Octavia snorted delicately. “Isabelle likes to give that impression, but I happen to know she sent all the way to France to find one of the rarest specimens she could get her hands on.” She chuckled. “She likes winning, especially
against Helena Rayburn. As I just said, those two might appear to be friends, but they certainly don't trust one another. I've heard that Isabelle has paid a commercial nursery to house her plants until the contest. She doesn't want Helena sneaking into her conservatory and seeing what she has. What's more, Isabelle isn't just a snob, she's also a social climber; once when she'd had too much champagne, she confided to Dulcie Makepeace that she wasn't going to stop till she'd reached the highest levels of English society.”

“That's amazing, how do you know all this?” Ruth was truly impressed by Octavia's intimate understanding of society, yet she couldn't see that a petty competition between two women could be a motive for murder. On the other hand, her involvement in the inspector's cases had taught her that it was certainly possible.

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Knowledge is power and I make it my business to know these things. Navigating the English social structure is an intricate and complex endeavor, and understanding it properly has been very helpful to our cause.”

“I didn't mean to imply you were a gossip,” Ruth said quickly, afraid she'd offended her friend.

“But I am a gossip,” Octavia countered with a grin. “And a very good one. That's how I'm able to procure funding for our cause. My analysis of the current social scene enables me to know who will be sympathetic to women's rights and open their purses when our funds run low and who to go to for help when one of our members gets arrested.”

Ruth raised her hand in mock surrender. “Forgive me, I didn't realize what a valuable commodity gossip is.”

“And it's fun, too, don't forget that.” Octavia took a quick drink. “Now, what else do you need to know?”

“What about Chloe Attwater and Thea Stanway?” She took another sip and promised herself she'd not drink it all. But goodness, it was the best wine she'd ever drunk.

“Chloe Attwater is a mystery,” Octavia said. “There were rumors that she was engaged out in India and then the fellow died so she married an American. But I don't know much about that. All I do know is that when she returned to London, she had enough money to buy her way into any social circle in England.”

“I've heard that.” Ruth knocked back the last of the wine and held out her glass to her friend.

Octavia took it, finished her own wine, and then got up. “What was odd was that Mrs. Attwater didn't buy her way into anything except Helena and Isabelle's gardening club.” She poured them both another glass of claret. “What's more, Mrs. Attwater is still a very lovely woman, but she's gone out of her way to avoid entanglements with any eligible men. Lord Derring was supposedly smitten with her, but she made it clear she wasn't interested.”

“I don't understand why Mrs. Attwater wanted to reacquaint herself with the women she'd known back then,” Ruth mused. “From what I've heard, when they were all in India, they weren't particularly good friends even then. So why buy her way into their circle now?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure she has her reasons,” Octavia said. “Dolly Trainer says she's supportive of women's suffrage and has even given money to our group, but that's the extent of her involvement. Oh and Dolly also mentioned
she heard that Mrs. Attwater's housekeeper left India with her when she went to the United States.”

“What about Thea Stanway?” Ruth took another sip and promised herself it would be her last.

“I've heard a little about her. When the three women were in India, Helena and Isabelle married fairly high-ranking officers—one a colonel and the other a major, I can't remember who married which—but Thea ended up with a young lieutenant. The gossip was that though she might have married the lowest rank, she outdid the other two because her husband was quite the catch. He was supposedly very handsome and quite a brilliant young man. There was other gossip, too.” Her brows drew together as she tried to remember. “I think there was talk that handsome Lieutenant Stanway was straying from his marriage vows with another officer's wife and the only reason blood wasn't shed about it was because he came down with a dreadful illness and left the army. Lucky for him that Thea Stanway had spent so much time in the infirmary. She kept him alive and got him safely home. But he never fully regained his health, and despite her expert nursing, he died.”

“I've heard that all the officers' ladies volunteered in the infirmary and they were a great help.” Ruth finished her wine and put the glass down.

“A great help,” Octavia scoffed. “Is that what you've heard? I doubt it's true. The army medics and the trained nurses did the real work and still do in most postings. The women just played about reading to the soldiers and writing letters for them. The only one of that group that did any real work was Thea Stanway. Her brother was a doctor, and supposedly, she knew as much as he did.”

The day had clouded over by the time the inspector, Barnes, and Constable Griffiths arrived outside the dingy brown brick building that housed Hiram Filmore's business. The establishment was at the end of a busy street beside a secondhand furniture shop and across from a workingman's café and a bustling warehouse. The only indication that the place was a business was a small sign on the front door that read,
H. FILMORE, SUPPLIER OF EXOTIC PLANTS, SEEDS, AND HERBS.

“Let's hope these keys work.” Barnes put the first one into the lock and heaved a sigh of relief when he heard a faint click. He turned the handle and shoved the door open.

“Good,” Witherspoon said as they crossed the threshold. “Now we'll just have to find out what the second key opens,” he said.

The day had clouded over and blinds covered all the windows, but inside, there was a surprising amount of light. A
brightly polished, round oak claw-foot table and three matching chairs stood next to one of the front windows and beside it stood what looked like an apothecary cabinet, but when Witherspoon moved closer to it, he saw the names of flowers written in fancy script on the small, square drawers. Along the far wall, rows of long, flat drawers were built into the wall and went as high as a tall man's waist. A long counter ran along the opposite side of the room and ended at a metal set of bars that stretched the breadth of the property and ran from the ceiling to the floor. There was a gate in the center of it.

Barnes pointed at the contraption. “Ye gods, he's got a ruddy wrought iron fence in the middle of his shop. Good Lord, look at that. No wonder it's so bloomin' bright in here. Half of the roof's been taken off and covered with glass.”

They all moved to the gate and peered through the bars. Plants in various stages of growth were displayed in neat rows. Some were mere trays of seedlings, some sprouts leading to the back three rows, which were blooming flowers in reds, pinks, purple, white, yellow, and golds.

“He'd not just got light in here”—Constable Griffiths pointed through the bars to his right—“there's heat radiators and empty misting pans as well.”

“Guess he wanted the place to be a bit like the jungles.” Barnes looked at Witherspoon and then held up the key ring they'd taken from Filmore's flat. “Should I give the lock on the gate a try, sir? At least then we'd know what two of the keys opened?” The inspector nodded and Barnes shoved the second key into the lock. It clicked and he pushed it open.

“I know a bit about plants, sir,” Griffiths offered. “And I'll do my best to make sure none of them are damaged if you'd like me to search in here.”

“Thank you, Constable.” Witherspoon nodded.

“Would you like me to start over there?” Barnes pointed to the counter. “There's probably shelves under there.”

“Yes, and I'll start with the drawers along the wall,” Witherspoon said.

Witherspoon started at the corner nearest the street. He squatted down and pulled out the bottom drawer. Surprisingly, it was empty. He went to the next one up, yanked it open, and saw that it was filled with burlap bags of various sizes, tiny clay pots stacked neatly in rows, and a tray of flat wooden sticks. The rest of the drawers in the row contained the same, so he moved farther down the wall, started again at the bottom drawer, and yanked it open. This one was filled with seed catalogs. He groaned inwardly, pulled the top one out, and saw that it was from America. He fanned the pages, found nothing, and took out the next one. All of the drawers in the row were filled with seed catalogs; there were dozens of foreign ones in languages he didn't recognize, half a dozen in French—which he did recognize—three from Canada, and one from Australia. He went through each and every one. By the time he'd finished every drawer in the row, his fingers hurt and his knees were killing him. He stood up. “Any luck, Constable Barnes?”

“Not yet, sir.” Barnes held up a stack of paper. “He's got written care instructions for every ruddy plant in the world.” He slapped them onto the counter and then reached underneath and pulled out a file box. “And this is filled with maps. I think they're from when he was out in the wild, sir, in India and even further east. He's marked where he found some of his specimens.”

“I've found something, sir,” Constable Griffiths shouted. He charged through the gate carrying a black metal box the size of a carpetbag and raced to the counter. Barnes pushed the file box out of the way to make room for it as Griffiths put it down. Witherspoon joined them.

“It's very heavy, sir. It was shoved back against the wall behind a bin of fertilizer.”

“You mean manure?” Barnes pulled a face as he caught a whiff of the box.

“Yes, sir,” Griffiths said with a quick grin. “And as you can see, it stinks to high heaven.”

“But it's a clever place to hide something,” Witherspoon muttered. “No one except a policemen would voluntarily go near a manure bin. Let's get it open.”

Barnes pulled the key ring out of his pocket, found the smallest of the three keys, and inserted it into the lock. “Ah, it seems to have done the trick, sir.” Inside was a packet of letters tied together with a blue ribbon and a cream-colored piece of stationery folded neatly in half. Witherspoon reached for the piece of paper, opened it, and read.

Mr. Filmore,

I have urgent business with you. Please come to my conservatory on June 15th at 11:00 A.M. Kindly bring me another specimen of a red vanda. The one you recently sold me has died.

Helena Rayburn

“June fifteenth is the day of the murder.” Barnes looked at Witherspoon. “And she did instruct him to bring her a red vanda.”

“If the note is really from her,” Witherspoon pointed out. “It could easily be from someone else.”

“That's easy enough to check, sir. We can obtain a sample of her handwriting and compare it with the note,” Griffiths added helpfully. A split second later, his eyes widened and a flush crept up his cheeks. “Of course, you already know to do that, I am sorry. I didn't mean to speak out of turn, sir.”

“It's quite all right, Constable,” Witherspoon said kindly. “And you're correct, a handwriting sample should do the trick.” He put the note back in the box, pulled out the stack of letters, and set them on the counter. “Let's see what's in here.” The ribbon was loose enough for him to pull the top one out. He slid out the letter, opened it, and read it. Then he handed it to Constable Barnes before turning to Griffiths. “I want you to take charge of the Rayburn house. Get over there now and tell the constable at the front to guard the back of the property and make sure no one leaves. You take the front door. We'll send you some extra men as soon as we get back to the station.”

“Yes, sir.” Griffiths nodded. “What should we do if Mrs. Rayburn attempts to leave the city, sir?”

“Stop her and contact me immediately,” he ordered.

*   *   *

The others were seated around the kitchen table by the time Mrs. Jeffries arrived for their afternoon meeting. “I'm
so sorry I'm late, but the traffic was dreadful and I foolishly took a hansom cab instead of the train.” She shed her bonnet and gloves as she rushed to the coat tree.

“Take a minute to catch your breath, we've all just sat down.” The cook put a plate of shortbread biscuits next to the big, brown teapot.

As soon as the housekeeper took her seat, Betsy said, “May I go first? Amanda has been fussy all afternoon and I don't know how long she'll stay asleep.” Much to the annoyance of Luty Belle, the little one was in her cot in Mrs. Goodge's room.

“But you can't leave, you need to hear what we've learned today,” Phyllis protested as she poured a cup of tea and passed it to Mrs. Jeffries.

“Smythe can catch me up. I spoke to a housemaid from the Stanway home. I caught her when she slipped out to meet her young man.” Betsy grinned. “She doesn't think much of her mistress and says that underneath that smile Mrs. Stanway shows the world, she's a right mean-spirited cow and that she'll do anything to get back at someone she thinks has wronged her, even if it takes her years.”

“How does she know such a thing?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

“Because right after Susan, that's the maid's name, was hired, she overheard Mrs. Stanway tell Mrs. Martell that the two servants that had just left her to go work for Mrs. Rayburn better plan on staying at the Rayburn house until the day they died, because they'd never get a reference from her.”

“Surely it's normal to be a bit annoyed when a trusted
friend steals your cook and a housemaid.” Ruth looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “It was a cook and a maid, wasn't it?”

“That's what Constable Barnes said.” Mrs. Jeffries took a piece of shortbread off the plate. “But you'd think she'd be more angry at her friend rather than her old staff. The constable also said Helena Rayburn offered higher wages that Mrs. Stanway couldn't match. Surely, Mrs. Stanway could understand why her servants moved on.”

“She doesn't care why,” Betsy shook her head. “She still feels hard done by and she's still angry with the two of them,” Betsy insisted. “And it's been over a year. Yesterday, a letter came for the maid and Susan said she saw Mrs. Stanway put it in her pocket. Susan thought she was going to take it to the Rayburn house and pass it along, but later that day, when the cook went to the wet larder to get the meat for dinner, Susan saw Mrs. Stanway lift the plate on the cooker and shove the letter into the fire. Susan said it scared her a bit. I think that's the only reason she talked to me today. She needed to tell someone.”

“She's probably worried over what Mrs. Stanway might do if she leaves,” Phyllis said.

“Probably.” Betsy cocked her head in the direction of Mrs. Goodge's room. “Let me finish this quickly, I think I hear Amanda thrashing about in her cot. Susan also says that the woman is such a terrible penny-pincher. She claims Mrs. Stanway sneaks into the kitchen and borrows her cloak if the weather's bad.”

“Why would that make her a penny-pincher?” Wiggins asked.

“Ma . . . ma . . .” Amanda's shrill cry was loud enough that they all heard it.

Betsy got up. “Susan says Mrs. Stanway does it so she won't wear out her own things. Mind you, she admitted she'd never actually caught her in the act. But recently, when the mistress was out, Susan would snatch the opportunity to sneak out and have a word with her young man, but twice now, her cloak wasn't on the peg by the back door. The first time it happened, she just assumed she'd left it upstairs, but then it happened again, and later, she found it hanging where it was supposed to be. She said it was very damp.”

“That household sounds right miserable,” Phyllis declared.

“Luckily for the servants, Susan said that Mrs. Stanway is gone for hours and hours most days so they don't have to put up with too much from her.” Betsy hurried off toward the cook's room just as Amanda's cries turned into bellows.

“If she's as miserly as the maid claims, where does she go?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “She wouldn't be out shopping.”

“I know,” Wiggins said. “I didn't have much luck today, but I was able to have a quick chat with a Ronnie White, he's a street lad who does odd jobs for some of the households on Bellwood Place, and he says that Mrs. Stanway comes to visit her old nanny quite a bit. Last time she come, she brought a nice bottle of Laphroaig. Ronnie saw it sticking out of her shopping basket. Seems the nanny is from Islay and likes a good nip now and then.”

“Thea Stanway can't be that cheap if she's buying Laphroaig.” Hatchet put down his mug. “It's a rather expensive liquor. If no one else objects, I'll tell you what I found out today. I learned a few more details about Major Edward Martell's death.”

“We all know he was a drunk and his death was supposedly an accident,” Luty reminded him. “So what did you find out?”

He grinned at her. “A number of things, madam. To begin with, there was a lot of gossip when it happened—”

“We know that, too,” Luty interrupted. “Tell us something we don't know.”

“I would if you'd give me a chance,” he retorted. “My source, who was in India at the time this happened, said that the inquiry into Major Martell's death was done hurriedly. However, lest you think it was because the army was trying to cover up a murder, it wasn't. They were trying to spare the Martell family further embarrassment.”

Luty looked skeptical. “Why should they care about that?”

“Because Martell's older brother worked as an undersecretary to someone of importance at the War Department. The family had already suffered substantial embarrassment over the man's drinking, and when that was added to the gossip Martell's marriage to Isabelle had caused, there was substantial pressure applied to put the matter to rest as quietly as possible.”

“What kind of gossip was there about the marriage?” Luty demanded.

“The usual sort. Isabelle claimed that Martell had seduced her with a promise of marriage. But he reneged on the promise supposedly because his family objected. Isabelle claimed she was now”—he paused and cleared his throat—“in the family way. Martell's commander was a staunch member of the Church of Scotland and ordered
Martell to do the right thing. Not long after the marriage, Martell began drinking.”

“What happened to the baby?” Betsy asked. She held a very cranky-looking toddler in her arms. Amanda stared at them for a moment, then promptly stuck her thumb in her mouth and burrowed her head in her mother's neck.

“My source didn't know.” Hatchet shrugged. “All he knew was the Martells never had a child.”

“Just because the army claimed it was an accident, that don't mean that Isabelle didn't shove him off that balcony,” Luty insisted.