Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (16 page)

“But there's more evidence she didn't than that she did,” Hatchet shot back. “At the inquest, the servants testified they had to break the balcony door open. He'd locked it before he fell.”

“Could he have been committing suicide?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Probably not.” Hatchet shook his head. “His manservant testified Martell always locked the door. It was his habit to go out there every night after dinner and drink himself into a stupor.”

“Well, dang, that lets Isabelle off the hook,” Luty muttered.

“So it would seem,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And even if there were evidence that Martell's death was suspicious, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with Hiram Filmore's murder.”

“Isabelle Martell is a social climber,” Ruth blurted out. She gave Hatchet an embarrassed smile. “Oh dear, sorry, I know it's not my turn. Please, go ahead and finish up.”

“No apology is necessary, I was quite through,” he replied.

“Go on, Ruth,” Mrs. Jeffries urged.

“As I said, my source told me that Isabelle Martell is a social climber, and I'm not talking about an ordinary person who hopes to improve their lot in life by moving up a bit.” She told them what she'd heard from her friend Octavia Wells. “I think what I'm trying to say is that if you're as concerned about social status as Mrs. Martell, you wouldn't take kindly to someone dredging up old gossip about your husband's death. But now that I've said it, it sounds rather silly as a motive for murder. But that's not all I heard from my source.” She told them what she'd learned about Thea Stanway and Chloe Attwater.

“Now that is right interestin',” Smythe said. “It was Mrs. Attwater who hinted to the inspector that Isabelle Martell pushed her husband off that balcony and made sure she told him that Mrs. Rayburn was involved in a man's drownin'. Blast a Spaniard, I think your source is right. Mrs. Attwater's got 'er own reasons for wantin' to be friends with the other three ladies.”

“And I don't think it's because of what she told the inspector,” Phyllis interrupted. “She told him she'd gone to them because she didn't know anyone in London, but that can't be right. Rich people are accepted everywhere they go.”

“That's true enough.” Smythe knew that relationships among women tended to be more complex than the ones he shared with his mates. He looked at Ruth. “And your source 'as no idea what those reasons could be?”

“I'm afraid not,” Ruth admitted. “Not only that, but
Octavia, she's my source, says that Mrs. Attwater's housekeeper is an Indian woman and that Mrs. Attwater took her with her when she went to America.”

“We knew that someone had accompanied Mrs. Attwater to America,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But we didn't know who it was until now.”

Betsy walked back and forth in front of the staircase, gently bouncing her cranky daughter on her hip to keep Amanda quiet so she could listen further. “I don't know, but I do think it odd.” She raised her voice a bit to make sure they could hear her. “Chloe Attwater went to India as a governess, not a member of the military or the upper class. I can see why she went to America—her fiancé died and she was probably sick and tired of taking care of someone else's children. So if an opportunity came her way, she'd take it. But why would the other lady go? I've heard that Indian women are very close to their families. So why would this lady leave hers and go to a foreign country?”

“Indian women are close to their families.” Hatchet helped himself to another cup of tea. “And you're right, Mrs. Attwater is wealthy now, but she was just a governess back then. She wouldn't have had the money to hire a servant to accompany her to San Francisco. I do think the situation is worth looking into.”

“What's worth looking into?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Maybe the woman went because she was poor and needed a position. That's generally why people leave their loved ones and move about. They've got no choice unless they want to starve to death.” Her voice was harsh and high, loud enough that Betsy gave a worried glance toward her husband as Amanda started to whimper. Smythe got
up and scooped the baby out of his wife's arms and nestled her against his chest.

“Unfortunately, that's very true,” Hatchet said quickly.

Mrs. Goodge closed her eyes as she realized that everyone was staring at her. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at all of you. I didn't sleep well last night and I'm tired.” She bit her lip and looked toward the staircase, where Smythe was cuddling Amanda and crooning softly in her ear. “Is my darling alright? I didn't mean to scare her.”

“It'll take more than a raised voice to scare our baby.” Luty reached over and patted Mrs. Goodge's arm. “You don't look like you feel very good.”

Mrs. Jeffries felt awful. She wished she'd minded her own business and not encouraged Mrs. Goodge to confide in her. The cook was still in a very dark place. Talking about her past hadn't helped her find peace, but instead, now that she'd brought the incident into the light, she seemed even more guilt ridden and miserable than before. “Why don't you go lie down,” she suggested. “Phyllis and I can manage dinner tonight.”

“I'm fine,” Mrs. Goodge insisted. She took a breath and forced a weak smile. “Besides, I've got a bit to report and I want to do my part.” She told them what she'd learned from Eliza Baker. “Thea Stanway isn't just nosy, she's a busybody, too.” She took a deep, steadying breath as she completed her recital.

“But she had a handsome husband that she must have loved very much,” Phyllis pointed out. “Maybe if he'd lived, she might have been a better person.”

“We'll never know, will we,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “That's it for me. I know it's not much, but it's something.”

“We never know what will or won't be important,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Now, if no one else has anything to add.” She looked at Phyllis, Luty, and Smythe, waited a moment, and when none of them spoke up, she repeated what Dr. Bosworth had told her. When she was finished, she glanced at the faces around the table and concluded the others looked just as confused as she felt.

*   *   *

“Here's the tea, sir,” Barnes sat down opposite the inspector and pushed a mug across the desk. “We're in luck, they just made a fresh pot. I've sent two more constables to the Rayburn home. Do you think she'll make a run for it, sir?”

“I think it's very possible, Constable.” Witherspoon picked up his mug and took a sip. They were in the duty office of the Ladbroke Road Police Station, and he was hoping to give his aching knees and feet a rest.

“You think she's guilty, then?”

Witherspoon pointed at the stack of letters on the desk. “You read the first one, what do you think?”

“I think if the rest of them are like the one we saw, she's got a powerful motive for murder.”

“Let's see what the rest of them have to say.” He slid the ribbon off, divided the stack evenly, and handed half the stack to Barnes. “You go through this lot and I'll do the—” He broke off as the door opened and Constable Roberts poked his head inside.

“Excuse me, sir, but the victim's military service record has arrived from the War Office.” He held up a large brown envelope.

“Bring it in, Constable.” Witherspoon took the file, nodded his thanks, and moved the pile of letters to the side of
the desk. Opening the file, he frowned, “Goodness, there's only three pages here.” He shoved his spectacles farther up his nose and began reading. “Filmore entered the army in September of 1871 out of the Chatham Depot. He entered the Forty-fourth East Essex as a private, and after six months there, his regiment went to Madras.”

“He joined in 1871, sir?” Barnes asked. “That's after the War Office reduced the enlistment period to twelve years.”

Impressed, the inspector looked at him. “You have some interesting facts at your fingertips, Constable.”

“I only know that because I've a cousin who joined the army in October of that year and he only went in because there had been reforms. It was either join the army or go down to the mines and the lad couldn't stand enclosed places.”

Witherspoon went back to the file. “There's a few dark spots on his record, but nothing too awful, just the usual occasional fighting and drunkenness.” He handed the first page to Barnes and continued reading. “He was wounded in 1876 but stayed on and ended up as a sergeant. His last posting was in the infirmary. He left the army in October of 1882.” He frowned. “But there's a note here saying he stayed on in India as a private businessman working as a procurer of exotic plants and herbs.”

He flipped to the last page. “Ah, here's something interesting.” He squinted to read the tiny handwriting on the paper. “It's a note from the district administrator in Madras to the commanding officer of the Forty-fourth. It says that Mr. Filmore discharged his duty as a witness in the drowning death of Mr. Anthony Treadwell, and that according to Mr. Filmore's testimony, the death was
accidental and not the result of a deliberate action on the part of the regimental officers.” He moved the paper closer to the light on his desk. “In addition, it says the statement of Jairaj Dhariwal will not be taken as evidence on this incident as the native man has disappeared and is no longer available to be questioned.”

“That doesn't sound good, sir.” Barnes raised his eyebrows. “He disappeared after giving a statement but before he could be put under oath?”

“Yes, that's rather suspicious,” the inspector agreed. “Once they've given a statement, most witnesses only ‘disappear' because someone either buys them off or silences them permanently.”

Barnes pointed to the file. “Is there anything else, sir? Anything that might tell us more details about the drowning?”

Witherspoon examined each sheet of paper, both front and back, before shaking his head. “No, nothing, just the cryptic message which I just read. Perhaps the War Office might have some additional details in the regimental files.”

“We can ask, sir, but I'd not count on it.” Barnes smiled cynically. “From the little hints in that note, it sounds like it was the kind of incident the military likes to keep quiet.”

“But Sir Jeremy Sanders is a very influential man,” Witherspoon pointed out. “And that might have some bearing on the matter.”

“Sir Jeremy is with the Home Office, sir, not the War Department,” Barnes reminded him. “And he might have influence, but I doubt that he can force the military to hand over information they want buried unless we can clearly show that the information is related to our case.” The
constable normally wouldn't argue the point so doggedly. But occasionally, he felt it his duty to keep his inspector from making unnecessary enemies in the government.

“And we can't prove that, can we.” Witherspoon sighed. “We've no idea whether or not this incident has any bearing whatsoever on Filmore's murder.”

“But you think it does, sir?”

“I do, but a policeman's intuition isn't enough, is it. The principal in the incident wasn't in the army—he is referred to as ‘Mr.' Anthony Treadwell.”

“If he wasn't in the army, what was the fellow doing in India?” Barnes put the pages back in the file folder.

“He might have been there on business,” Witherspoon speculated. He wasn't sure what to make of this new turn of events, and this, coupled with everything else they'd learned today, was both enlightening and confusing.

“Should we get started on the letters, then?” Barnes tapped the top of his stack.

Witherspoon nodded in agreement. “We should be able to make some headway before it's time to go.”

*   *   *

“Are you sure you don't want to go lie down?” Mrs. Jeffries put the last saucer in the drying rack. “Phyllis and I can easily manage the inspector's supper. You've done all the work and even we can't muck up your wonderful lamb stew.”

Mrs. Goodge put the lid back on the top of the black cast-iron pot and gave her friend a grateful smile. “It's kind of you to offer, Hepzibah, but if I sleep now, I'll be awake all night. Now stop worrying about me, I'll be right as rain in a day or two.”

Through the window over the sink, Mrs. Jeffries saw a hansom pull up outside and the inspector step out. “I'd best get upstairs, he's home.”

“Dinner will be served in half an hour. That should give him time to give you a complete report.” Mrs. Goodge opened the oven door and carefully took out an apple tart.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in acknowledgment as she raced to the back stairs, took them at a dead run, and then barely beat the inspector to the front hall.

“You're home, sir.” She reached for his bowler. “Mrs. Goodge says dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

“Excellent. That will give us time for a lovely sip of sherry.” He headed to his study, and a few moments later, she was pouring both of them a drink.

“You seem decidedly more cheerful this evening.” She handed him his glass and took her usual spot.

“I am. We made real progress today.” He took a quick drink.

“Of course you did, sir. You always do. Now, don't keep me in suspense. You look as pleased as Samson does when he steals a nice chunk of meat off Mrs. Goodge's plate. Tell me what's got you smiling this evening?”

He grinned proudly. “I think we're going to solve this case very, very soon.”

“Does that mean you have a suspect?”

“Yes.”

Taken aback by the certainty in his tone, she tried to think of what to ask next. “You have proof that one of your suspects is guilty?”

“Let me amend my original statement. We don't have
absolute proof as yet, but yes, we now have a very strong suspect for Filmore's murder. It's Helena Rayburn.”