Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (17 page)

“Helena Rayburn?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “Why would she kill him?”

“Blackmail,” he said.

“Filmore was blackmailing her?”

“We think it is very possible.” He put his glass on the side table and leaned back against the cushions. “From the beginning, her behavior has been suspicious. She claims she didn't look at the murder weapon and so she couldn't identify it as her property; she lied about the bloodstained duster, apron, and gloves; and she was out of the house at the time of the murder.”

“Which means she had both the weapon and the opportunity,” Mrs. Jeffries concluded. Even as the words left her mouth, she had one of those strange feelings that often hit her when they were on a case. She couldn't put her finger on it, but the inkling of an idea was trying to take root in her mind and she was suddenly certain that the inspector shouldn't stop looking into this case.

“That's right, but what was confusing was the motive. Why would an upper-class woman suddenly take it into her head to commit murder? We think we found our answer this afternoon when we were searching Filmore's shop.” He picked up his glass again and glanced at the clock.

“It appears you've had a very successful day, sir.” She pretended to pout. “But aren't you being just a bit mean?”

“Mean?” He stared at her in some surprise.

“You're telling me the conclusion without giving me the narrative. It's a bit like rushing to the back of one of
Mr. Conan Doyle's stories to see how it ends. You know how I love hearing about all the details of the investigation, sir. You're so very talented in, well, painting the picture of how your methods work.”

His eyes widened as he stared at her, and for a split second, she thought she'd laid it on a bit too thick.

But then he laughed self-consciously. “Mrs. Jeffries, you flatter me. But if you want me to, uh, paint a picture for you with the details, I shall certainly oblige. Let me start at the beginning.”

“Thank you, sir,”

He began by telling her about the meeting with Filmore's landlady before moving on to what they found in his flat.

“How much money was there altogether?” she asked, when he paused to take another sip of sherry.

“Over two hundred pounds, which we took into evidence. I expect once we can ascertain who the man's heirs might be, the money will eventually become part of his estate.”

“Was there anything in the flat that indicated he had a solicitor?” She took a sip from her own glass.

“No, not in the flat or in his shop. Constable Barnes asked Mrs. Rhodes if she knew if he had a legal representative, but she had no idea.” He continued with his narrative, going into great detail, describing the shop and then rather dramatically raising his voice when he described the letter he'd read.

“It was the stack of letters that led you to believe Mrs. Rayburn is the killer?” she pressed.

“Of course. She signed them ‘Your loving Helena,' and in one letter, there was a reference to a ‘Malcolm.'”

“And that's Mrs. Rayburn's late husband's Christian name,” she murmured. “But was there anything that made you think Filmore had used the letters to blackmail her? The only other thing you said you found in the box was a letter from her to Filmore asking for another red vanda.”

“She has claimed all along that she had no idea why Filmore was in her conservatory, but the evidence suggests otherwise.” He drained his drink and put the glass down. “If the handwriting in the note is hers, it'll prove she's been lying all along.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded, though she wondered if comparing the handwriting was the best way to prove the woman a murderer. Handwriting could be faked. Phyllis, oddly enough, had a rare talent as a forger.

“But it wasn't just what we found at his flat and his business premises which might be useful to us; we also had a look at Filmore's service record.” He told her what they'd found in Filmore's file and how both he and the constable found the “disappearance” of a witness in the drowning of Anthony Treadwell very suspicious. “We suspect, but we can't be sure, of course, that in some way Helena Rayburn is connected to this matter as well.”

“Are you going to ask her directly?”

“From what we've seen of Mrs. Rayburn, I doubt she'd tell the truth, and unfortunately, Constable Barnes and I both realize that getting the facts about an incident that happened years ago in India might be impossible. Nonetheless, we're going to try.”

“I'm sure you'll find a way, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Her mind was working furiously. Like the inspector and Barnes, she, too, was always suspicious when
witnesses to a death were no longer available. “But if Filmore was a blackmailer, perhaps Mrs. Rayburn wasn't his only victim.”

“We're looking into that possibility as well,” he agreed. “But the only evidence we have thus far is the love letters Helena Rayburn wrote to a man named Nigel.”

“She never used his surname?”

“No, but from the content of the letters, we can infer they were all written while both of them were in India.”

“Which is where Mr. Filmore spent the last years of his enlistment.”

“That's correct.” Witherspoon finished his sherry. “And though we don't know that he had any knowledge of what she was up to back then, we know he now had possession of some very damaging letters.”

“But if she wrote them in India, isn't there a chance they were written before she married her late husband?” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “In which case, they couldn't be used to really blackmail Mrs. Rayburn.”

“But they could,” he protested. “From the contents of the letters, we're positive he was married. She mentions his ‘spouse' several times in the correspondence.”

“From what we know of Helena Rayburn, she'd do anything to avoid a scandal, especially now.”

“Why now?” He gave her a puzzled look.

For a moment, she panicked. “Didn't you tell me yesterday that she was trying to get onto the Narcissus Committee at the Royal Horticultural Society?” She was bluffing but hoped that he'd told her so many things he'd not realize this may or may not have been one of them.

“Oh, yes, I did, I'd forgotten. I suppose that this is the
sort of scandalous tidbit that might turn some members of the Royal Horticultural Society against her appointment. She'd not want that.”

“Is it possible that Filmore wasn't a blackmailer, that he was running a legitimate business?” Mrs. Jeffries didn't think it likely, but she didn't want the inspector acting precipitously by arresting Helena Rayburn. They needed more facts.

“Well, I suppose it's possible.” He looked doubtful. “His landlady spoke highly of his character. She thinks he was the one who gave her the return ticket to Bournemouth.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Rhodes says the ticket was shoved through her mail slot. It was in a plain brown envelope with her name and address hand printed on it. She assumed her sister had sent it. But when she met her sister, she hadn't. She then said the next likely person to have done it was Mr. Filmore, that he'd often given her small gifts in the past and that she'd mentioned to him only the previous week how much she missed seeing her family.”

“But aside from an envelope full of money, you didn't find any other indication that Filmore was a blackmailer?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “I mean, you didn't come across any ledgers or anything like that?”

“Just ordinary business ledgers.”

Mrs. Jeffries sipped her drink as her mind raced. There was too much information, too many facts to absorb all at once. “Well, sir, I think you've done an excellent job today, and what's more, I have every faith in your ability to find out all the facts in this case, including the incident in India.”

He laughed uneasily. “You give me too much credit, Mrs. Jeffries. Besides, the War Office isn't going to be forthcoming about an old scandal in the military.”

“Of course they aren't, sir.” She reached for his now-empty glass, got up, and poured them both a second drink. “But you'll not let that stop you.” She smiled confidently as she handed him his glass. “You'll do precisely what you always do, and what's more, sir, you know it'll work.”

“And what's that?”

“Gossip, sir. You'll pay attention to housemaids, cooks, boot boys, and street lads, and you'll find out everything. You always do. Why, you've already learned so very much that I'm sure once you have another chat with the Attwater, Martell, and Stanway households, you'll find out everything you need to know.”

*   *   *

The clock was striking ten when Mrs. Jeffries came downstairs to lock up the house. After dinner the inspector had “popped over” to have a quick drink with Lady Cannonberry, something he'd taken to doing three or four times a week. She was glad she'd held her tongue and not badgered poor Ruth into trying to get even more information out of the inspector when they had a case. The two of them deserved their private time alone. But he was home and safely abed now, as was the rest of the household.

As she came down the back stairs into the hall, she glanced toward Mrs. Goodge's quarters and sent up a silent prayer that the poor woman was sleeping properly. Reaching the back door, she stepped outside and quietly closed it behind her.

Stepping to the edge of the terrace, she took a deep
breath, inhaling the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. The summer night was warm and inviting. She stepped to the edge of the small terrace and stared into the communal garden. From down the oval pathway, she could hear the clink of glasses and the cheerful voices of dinner guests who'd spilled out onto the first-floor balcony of the Amberson house, two doors down. Many of their neighbors were still up and the light spilling from their open windows gave enough illumination for her to see as she moved farther into the communal garden.

Crossing the gravel pathway, she stepped onto the grass and went toward the huge trees in the center. As she walked, she went over everything she could remember about the case.

Was Filmore a blackmailer? Appearances could be deceiving, and though there was some evidence he wasn't just an ordinary businessman, was there enough to conclude he'd been killed because he blackmailed people? If so, was Helena Rayburn his only victim?

When she reached the middle of the garden, she stopped beneath the spreading branches of oaks and let her mind wander. One question kept nagging at her. What was it that had precipitated Filmore's murder? They'd all been in India together; now they were all here. But from what they'd learned, Helena Rayburn, Isabelle Martell, and Thea Stanway, or the warring widows as she liked to think of them, had been back in London for close to ten years. Filmore wasn't a recent arrival, either; he'd been here long enough to establish a profitable business and make connections with his former acquaintances from India.

So why now? There had to be a catalyst, a compelling
reason to make someone decide he needed to be killed right now. Could it have been the arrival of Chloe Attwater? But she'd been back in London for over a year, so again, why now?

But was that even the right question? Perhaps there were other ways of looking at the situation. Why had Mrs. Attwater, who apparently had more money than the Bank of England, deliberately set out to befriend women who'd snubbed her in India? Did she want to rub their noses in her wealth? But if she'd wanted to do that, she could easily have gone into a higher circle and lorded it over them. Both Isabelle Martell and, to some extent, Helena Rayburn were social climbers and would have chafed at seeing a woman they snubbed moving easily among the rich and powerful. But Chloe Attwater hadn't done that. Instead she'd bought her way into their club. Why?

A shout of laughter cut through the night and she realized her feet were damp as the dew permeated her thin shoes. She started toward the house.

Perhaps the murder had nothing to do with India. Perhaps it was something else altogether. But what? Neither the police nor the household had come across anyone else who wanted Hiram Filmore dead. But perhaps they weren't looking in the right places.

The scent of vanilla and sugar filled the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens as Mrs. Jeffries, accompanied by a very cranky Samson, carried the last of the inspector's breakfast dishes down the back stairs. Their morning meeting was over and everyone was out on the hunt.

The cook put a baking tray of freshly made biscuits on top of the cooker and turned to the housekeeper. “I've got three sources coming by today so I thought I'd best do a bit more baking.”

Samson, who obviously felt he'd been shortchanged on his breakfast, made a pitiful meow and trotted over to his empty food dish.

“Oh, my poor baby, I've got some nice sausage and egg leftovers for you.” Mrs. Goodge shuffled to the sink, where a plate of scraps was at the ready.

Mrs. Jeffries put the teapot and two cups in the sink and
then went to the pine sideboard. Opening the top drawer, she pulled out the household ledger and tried to decide whether or not to risk a confrontation. At both breakfast and their morning meeting, the cook's red and watery eyes, pale complexion, and slumped shoulders made it clear she'd not slept well. Mrs. Jeffries took the ledger and slapped it onto the table. She opened it and flicked to the current page and then decided to speak her mind. It might be uncomfortable for both of them, but it was time for Mrs. Goodge to come to terms with the past. If this kept up, Mrs. Jeffries beloved friend was going to end up sick or dead.

Mrs. Goodge bent down and dumped the food in Samson's bowl. He shoved his head in while the last morsel was still in the air. A bit of egg bounced off his ear and rolled onto the floor.

Mrs. Jeffries opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Mrs. Goodge turned to her and said, “I didn't sleep a wink last night and that was good.”

“Good?”

“It made me think, and once I started thinking, I came to a decision.” She straightened, brushed her hands against the towel draped over the sink edge, and came to the table. “This case has been hard on me because it reminded me so much of Janet Lawler, and as I told you, once I had her in my mind, I felt so bad, so guilty.”

“Yes, I know, but of course, we all have incidents in our past that make us feel that way.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn't sure if she ought to keep talking or just shut up and listen.

She opted for the second option as Mrs. Goodge pulled out her chair and sat down. “The mere mention of India was enough to make me feel like I'd committed murder,”
she said. “But last night, I realized something important. Janet's death wasn't my fault.”

Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries stared at her. “Of course it wasn't your doing. People make their own choices and most of those choices have nothing to do with anyone else.”

Mrs. Goodge took off her spectacles, laid them down, rubbed her eyes, and then gave Mrs. Jeffries a bleary smile. “I know you've been worried about me, Hepzibah, and I appreciate it. As you've said, we're family, and I never thought to have any sort of family.”

“Of course we're family.” Tears pooled in Mrs. Jeffries' eyes but she fought them back to save them both embarrassment.

“Despite looking a bit like a walking corpse this morning,” Mrs. Goodge continued, “I'm feeling better than I have since we got this case. I'm not responsible for Janet Lawler's death. No one is. Taking a human life is God's decision, not mine, and I'm ashamed I was arrogant enough to think otherwise. The Lord for whatever his reasons decided it was her time to die. She didn't get the sack because of that one incident, which, I will admit, might have been my fault. She got the sack because of a number of other incidents, most of which happened well before I was put in charge of the kitchen. The previous cook tried to get her sacked half a dozen times, but the mistress, being a bit on the softhearted side, wouldn't do it until the incident with the platter.”

“I'm so glad you've come to this conclusion,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “I hoped you wouldn't go on like you've been doing. I've been very concerned. At our age, Mrs. Goodge, our mental and emotional states can easily have
an effect on our general health.” When Dr. Bosworth was escorting her out of St. Thomas' yesterday, she had heard him use those very words. They'd happened upon a young medical man berating an elderly woman because she'd forgotten to take her medicine as prescribed. The young doctor had been so harsh, the elderly woman had started wailing, and Dr. Bosworth had lost his temper and lectured the fellow in front of half a dozen staff and visitors.

“I suppose I just needed to face the situation,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And last night I did. About half past two I realized I couldn't have gotten her sacked—I wasn't that powerful nor had I any influence on the mistress.”

“I'm so relieved, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “We need you on this case. I've a feeling that the beginnings of this murder started a long time ago in India.”

“And you're hoping my old sources might know something?” She yawned and got to her feet. “Let's hope so. I've got three of them coming in today. I'd best make another cup of tea. I don't want to be falling asleep just when they've got something interesting to say.”

*   *   *

“Cor blimey, this isn't my day.” Wiggins ducked into the mews as he heard Constable Barnes' voice coming out of the hansom that had pulled up a few feet away from where he stood. He flattened himself along the edge of the fence and prayed that the constables the inspector had watching the house didn't spot him.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the inspector's voice faded as he and the constable moved closer to the Rayburn home. Wiggins stood there for a moment, wondering what to do next. He supposed he ought to go to one of the other
ladies' neighborhoods and try his luck there; they all had servants and surely someone would stick their nose out the back door.

Wiggins went to the end of the mews and glanced down the street. Except for the constable at the front door, there was no one else about who might know him, so if he crossed the street, he could get past without being noticed. He stepped off the pavement just as a housemaid carrying a shopping basket appeared from the side of the Rayburn home. She turned toward the Kensington High Street. Wiggins was after her like a shot.

He followed her to the corner and waited till she crossed the road before he caught up with her. “Excuse me, miss.” He doffed his cap. “But I'm a bit lost. My name is Albert Jones and my mistress has sent me all the way across town to a draper's shop in this area, but I've forgotten the street it's supposed to be on.”

She stopped, shifted her shopping basket to her other arm, and studied him suspiciously. Her hair was brown with just a touch of gray at the temples, her eyes blue and deep set beneath heavy brows, and her features ordinary.

He gave her a timid smile as she looked him over. She must have decided to help him because she nodded curtly. “There are two of them close by.” She pointed straight ahead. “Mecham's is on the Kensington High Street or there's Martins and Sons on the Cromwell Road.”

Wiggins hesitated. If he guessed wrong, she'd go in one direction and he'd be forced to go in another. “Mecham's, that sounds like it,” he muttered, trying his best to sound as confused as possible in case she was going toward the other street.

“It's not far.” She gave him another appraising glance. “I'm going that way, you can come with me.” She started walking again.

“Ta, miss, it's ever so good of you to help me. I get confused in this part of London.” He fell into step with her. She was a few years older than he was, and from her reaction, he didn't think she'd get chatty because he flirted with her. “Mind you, I generally don't get sent here but I volunteered to come because I read about that murder.”

She snorted. “Like murder, do ya?”

“'Course not,” he protested. “No decent person would like murder, but I'll admit to being interested in the subject. After I've saved up enough money to buy my sister a ticket home from Canada, I'm leaving my job and joining the police force. That's the reason I got lost—I came here hoping to get a chance to speak to a constable from the murder house.”

“You want to be a police constable.” She snorted again. “I don't know why, seems to me most of them spend their time standing about and waiting for something to happen. Did you find the murder house?” She gave him a quick glance.

“I did but the constable standing on the door stoop looked ever so fierce, you know, like he wasn't the chatty type.” Wiggins made sure he pronounced his words properly. There was something about this one that made him think she wasn't sympathetic to lazy speech. “I hung out a bit, you know, hoping I could find another one to talk to, but then it got late and I knew my mistress would be angry if I was late getting back. There's three big rugs that need
pounding and I'm the only one in the household strong enough to carry them out to the garden.”

“So you didn't see which house I came out of.” She eyed him speculatively.

“No, I got lost but then I found myself back on Bellwood Place, and from there, I knew I could find my way home. Why? Are you from the murder house?”

“I am, and let me tell you, it's not been a pleasant place since that fellow was found in our conservatory,” she replied. “My mistress, who isn't the easiest person to work for to begin with, has made the household even more miserable.”

They'd reached another corner and the shops were less than a quarter of a mile away. Wiggins knew he didn't have much time left. “But surely she'd leave someone like you alone, someone smart and reliable. Least that's the way you seem to me.” In his experience, flattery almost always worked.

“You'd think so,” she agreed with a quick nod of her head. “But her nibs has been a right madam ever since the police came, and just before I left, they were back again. I thought she was going to go mad when Mrs. Clemments came down to the kitchen and told her they were waiting in the drawing room. She started shouting at Mrs. Clemments.”

“Is Mrs. Clemments your housekeeper?” he interrupted, though he already knew the answer. Still, it was important to play the part properly.

“That's right, and from the way Mrs. Rayburn was carrying on, you'd have thought it was poor Mrs. Clemments' fault the police had come back. Mind you, she stood up for
herself and told the mistress if she didn't want to speak to the police, she could tell them that herself.” She came to a halt and turned to look at him. “My name is Amy, Amy Broadhurst, sorry, I should have introduced myself when you told me you was Mr. Albert Jones. But if you don't mind my saying, I'm a bit upset. Hearing the mistress screaming like a common fishwife is enough to send you running for the hills.”

“I understand, Miss Broadhurst.” He smiled sympathetically. He genuinely felt sorry for her but he was mindful of the role he was playing. “I know how you feel. My mistress has a sharp tongue and a loud voice, too, which is one of the reasons I'm joining the police force.”

“Lucky you, you've got a way out.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Wish I did, but I'm stuck good and proper. What's worse is that now my conscience is nagging me. I'm not sure what to do about it.”

“Worried, what about?” He could see the draper's shop ahead and was desperate to keep her talking.

She stopped, turned, and stared at him intently. “If you're really goin' to be a policeman, maybe you can help me.”

Wiggins knew a mistake now would be fatal. He whipped off his flat cap and bobbed his head respectfully. “I'd be pleased to help you in any way I can, miss.”

“I just want you to listen and give me your opinion, that's all.” She took a breath. “If you're going to be a copper, maybe what I tell you will make you a better one, maybe it'll make you more understandin' when you're talking to people who've had a horrible shock.”

“Like finding out murder's been done in your household.”

“That's right. The truth is, the police interviewed me and asked me what was what that morning.”

“You mean the morning of the murder.” He took her arm and gently tugged her to the far side of the pavement, out of the way of the heavy foot traffic.

She bobbed her head. “I was so rattled by what had happened, that I forgot something that might be important, and now with the mistress being in such a state and the police showing back up today, I'm all at sixes and sevens and I don't know what to do.”

“I'm a good listener,” he assured her. Cor blimey, was she going to say something or not?

“Maybe once I tell it, it'll be easier to speak to that Constable Barnes. Peggy, she's the other housemaid, she spoke to him longer than I did and she thinks he's a decent sort. I wouldn't want him to think I'd lied or was tryin' to protect her nibs.”

“I'm sure he'd not think anything of the kind,” he encouraged her.

“You see, the constable asked me if I'd seen anything unusual that day, and I told him the truth, that it was a day like any other. We were busy getting ready for a luncheon the mistress was having for her friends. But what I forgot to mention was that I did see something odd.”

“What was it?” Was he going to have to drag every single word out of the woman?

“Mrs. Clemments sent me upstairs with the teapot from the silver service, and just as I was passing the front hall, a letter come through the post box. Mrs. Rayburn had just come down the front stairs so she snatched up the letter. I took the pot into the dining room and immediately went
back down to the kitchen. But when I passed Mrs. Rayburn, she was reading the note, and now that I think about it, she looked absolutely furious. Right after that, she went out.”

*   *   *

Helena Rayburn stared at them through narrowed, angry eyes. “Inspector Witherspoon, your appearance here is outrageous, outrageous I tell you! It was bad enough that you've got policemen surrounding my house and humiliating me in front of my neighbors, but now you're here again. What on earth do you want me to say? I didn't kill that man and I've no idea who did. I don't know why you've focused your attention on me, but it's got to stop. You're not right to badger me like this, not right at all.”