Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (19 page)

“Is everything alright?”

“It's fine. As a matter of fact, the doctor says she's fit as a fiddle and the only thing that might make either of us ill is the fact that we're worryin' ourselves to death.” He sighed. “But both of us really want this baby 'cause we never thought we'd 'ave one.”

“It's goin' to be fine, Blimpey,” Smythe assured him. “Nell's a strong, healthy woman, and these days, 'avin' a baby isn't as risky as it used to be.” He'd no idea if that was true or not, but he wanted to give his friend reassurance and comfort.

“Ta, Smythe, I've got me fingers crossed.” He grinned as Lily, the barmaid, brought a pint over and put it down in front of him. He nodded his thanks, took a quick sip, and sighed in satisfaction. “Now, on to business. I've got a lot of information to pass along so listen carefully. First of all, Hiram Filmore wasn't just a businessman. The rumors I heard was that he was suspected of being a thief as well.”

“A thief?”

“That's right. When he was in charge of the infirmary, there was a bit of a scandal, and what's more, it was a right ugly scandal at that, the kind the army hates.”

“That could mean just about anything.”

“No, this one involves the personal effects of dead soldiers. Apparently, the last year or so that Filmore was at the infirmary in Madras, there were a number of letters written to the War Office claiming that effects of the dead men hadn't been sent home.”

“What kind of personal effects are ya talkin' about?”

“Rings, tie pins, small objects the soldiers had picked up in India and written home about but which never come back to England. The War Office ignored the first few letters, but when it become a flood, they sent off a nice little note to the commanding officer demanding he do an investigation. Just about then, Filmore left the army and opened his orchid-hunting business, which, by the way, if you're not sponsored by someone with more money than the Bank of England, takes a fair bit of lolly.”

“So you're thinkin' that Filmore pinched the bits and pieces to get the capital to start his own business?” Smythe took another sip.

“That's what it looked like at first, but then, another source of mine said Filmore couldn't have been the thief.”

“And this second source is trustworthy?”

Blimpey merely raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, stupid thing to say, go on.”

“My informant claimed Filmore wasn't even in Madras when some of the thefts took place. Most of the stuff taken was little things that had some value but not enough for
the military to waste money havin' a full inquiry even if a family or two from back home raised a bit of a fuss. But the last couple of objects were valuable; one was a small pinkie ring with a black diamond, and the other was an antique lacquer box inlaid with mother of pearl. But when they were both nicked, Filmore wasn't even workin' at the infirmary. When the ring was taken, he was on leave, and when the box was snatched, he'd gone to one of the outlying towns, a place called Minjur, to give evidence in an inquiry about the disappearance of a local man. Both times, he wouldn't 'ave had a chance to take the goods.”

“But if he wasn't a thief, where did he get the lolly to start his business?” Smythe muttered.

“I'm workin' on findin' that out. But that's not all I've got for ya. I found out a bit more about your garden club ladies. Firstly, Isabelle Martell was suspected of murdering her husband by shoving him off a balcony when he was in 'is cups, so to speak.”

“I've already 'eard that.” Smythe took a sip of beer. “The army was satisfied it was an accident, and supposedly, they rushed the inquiry into 'is death to avoid embarrassin' the family.”

“If ya know so much, what ya payin' me for?” Blimpey demanded. “So I suppose ya also know his older brother worked in the War Department.”

He nodded.

“Well, there is somethin' ya don't know and I don't know what it 'as to do with Filmore's death, but I'll tell ya anyway. The army was right glad to get rid of Martell. Mind ya, I don't think they murdered the bloke. Martell bought his commission in 1869.”

“So what's that got to do with it? 'E was still an English officer.”

“Yes, but he went in two years before the Cardwell reforms because he was the second son of a prominent family. It was expected he'd become an officer.”

Smythe stared at him blankly.

“Come on, Smythe, surely you've 'eard it. It's 'ow the upper crust makes sure their sons get a leg up in this world without the family havin' to divvy up the goodies. The first son gets the title or inheritance, the second son goes into the military, and the third son goes into the church.”

“What about the fourth son?”

“He usually gets sod all. But back to Martell. Even 'is friends claim 'e wasn't the sharpest fellow and it turns out the army agreed with 'em. Martell was just competent enough to 'ang on as an officer, but once the other reforms were put into place and 'e 'ad to compete with men who were genuinely competent, 'e didn't do so well. The army made sure to put him in positions where 'e'd not do too much damage. But even that proved too much, and over the years, 'e'd become less and less able to do even the simplest jobs, especially as he'd developed such a fondness for the bottle. The rumor my source 'eard was that the brass was a bit relieved when he left this world. And truth be told, his brother wasn't all that choked up about it, either.”

Smythe nodded thoughtfully. “Just 'ow wealthy was the Martell family? Did he 'ave anything to leave his wife other than his army pension?”

“You mean why did his missus bother marryin' 'im in the first place? You've got to remember, these days, you
don't just inherit from the father's side of the blanket. The Martells are prominent but not as rich as they used to be, but he did inherit two good-sized farms from his mother's family.” Blimpey grinned. “I was savin' that bit. Major Martell inherited his property right before his accident, and once 'e was dead and out of the way, his missus come back to England, sold them both, and made a good bit of lolly from it.”

“That's not all I found out,” Blimpey said briskly. “Seems that for a good two weeks before he was murdered, there was a woman keepin' a close eye on Filmore. She was 'angin' about his neighborhood. Sometimes she'd sit in the café across the road from his shop and keep watch, but what really caused her to get found out was when she'd hide in a narrow passageway opposite the shop and watch the man. Guess she thought no one was payin' any attention to her, but she was dead wrong about that. Lots of people noticed her.”

“You found out more than the police”—Smythe took a sip of his beer—“but then again, you've got better informants.”

“I pay mine more.” Blimpey grinned. “But like I told ya, orchid huntin' is an expensive and competitive business, and this mystery woman wasn't the only one keepin' an eye on Filmore.”

“Who else was doin' it?”

“Filmore's competitors. Lord Pennington's syndicate paid a street lad to keep watch on him. They wanted to know if he closed up shop and took off for some hot, tropical country to hunt for more orchids. He was good at what he did, good at findin' the rare ones that bring the high
prices, and the Pennington syndicate wanted to be at the ready to follow 'im if they had to.”

“And this street lad works for you as well?”

“'E does now.”

*   *   *

“Mrs. Rayburn, you really should have a cup of tea,” Witherspoon urged. He flicked a quick glance toward the open doorway. Constable Barnes nodded in acknowledgment and quietly slipped out into the corridor to find the housekeeper.

“All of us could do with something hot to drink.” The inspector thought a good swig of sherry might be even better, but he didn't wish to overstep his bounds. “Mrs. Rayburn, please, are you alright?” At this point, he was more concerned for her health than arresting her for murder.

She'd gone so pale the flesh around her mouth was slightly green, and despite being tightly clasped together on her lap, her hands shook. She stared over the inspector's shoulder, her gaze unfocused.

She'd allowed herself to be led into the small sitting room next to the drawing room so Barnes could rescue the letters and the maids could clear up the broken glass and mangled birds. But she'd not said one word since Thea Stanway's accusations. “Mrs. Rayburn,” he began again.

Suddenly, she shook her head. “No, no, I'm not, I'm not like she said. I'm not a monster, I'm not.”

“Mrs. Stanway was understandably very upset,” he said. “People often say things they don't mean when they've had a shock.”

“She said I killed him? She said she'd see me hang, but
I didn't. I didn't kill Filmore. I was afraid he was going to blackmail me, but I didn't even see him that day.”

“You mean the day of the murder, Monday?”

She nodded. “He sent me a letter, but he wasn't there when I arrived. No one was there because it had started to rain.”

“What time exactly was this?” he interrupted softly. The door opened and Barnes stepped inside.

“I don't know the exact time, but it was past half ten. I know that because I heard he clock strike the half hour when I came into the hall. I was so busy that morning, guests were coming for luncheon, and I was annoyed when the letter came through the mail slot. I almost didn't get it. But I didn't want it sitting in the letter bin when I had guests coming.”

“What did it say?” Witherspoon asked.

“Terrible things, disgusting things.”

Witherspoon didn't want to press her too hard, but he wanted to keep getting information. “Where did you go after you finished reading it?”

“To St. Michael's. Filmore told me to meet him in the churchyard. So I slipped out and went down the mews. I didn't want to risk anyone seeing me on the street, and there's a footpath at the end of the mews that takes you into the rear of the churchyard,” she murmured. “But he wasn't there, and I waited for a while, but he never came. Then I got angry. How dare he threaten me, how dare he?”

“What did he threaten you with?” Barnes asked.

“What do you think? His letter said for me to meet him at eleven if I didn't want the whole world to know about Nigel Stanway.” She laughed harshly.

“Do you still have the it, the one he sent you?”

“Do you think I'm a fool, Inspector? I burnt it as soon as I knew he was dead. Oh dear God, this is a nightmare. How can this be happening to me, to me?” She shook her head in disbelief. “This isn't right, it simply isn't right.”

“If you're innocent of Filmore's murder, we'll prove it by finding the real killer.” The inspector patted her hand sympathetically.

She blinked and jerked her fingers away. “Don't you understand, if Thea trots around London telling everyone about those letters, it could ruin me. Absolutely ruin me! You must stop her.”

Witherspoon stared at her incredulously. Surely the woman understood she had much bigger problems than being ruined socially. “And how do you suggest we do that, ma'am?”

“I don't know and I don't care. But you've got to do it,” she demanded. “If the Royal Horticultural Society finds out that I had an illicit relationship, they'll give the spot on the Narcissus Committee to Isabelle and not me. I'm not having that, Inspector, I simply am not having it.”

“I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you first came by.” Sir Nathan Ramshaw gave Luty an apologetic smile as he rose to greet her. “But unfortunately, I was at a meeting at the Board of Governors for the bank.”

Luty waved her hand dismissively. “Don't apologize, Nathan, it was my fault for stopping by yesterday without sending you word or waiting for an invitation.”

She glanced around the opulent drawing room with amazement. For a man who'd started life as a poor boy from the East End, Nathan had done himself proud. Her own home was nicely turned out, if she did say so, but he'd managed to outdo just about everyone except the Queen.

The fireplace was paved in a rare bluish marble and set behind a low fire guard of highly polished brass, the walls were covered with gold leaf patterned paper, and gold and
blue velvet striped curtains topped with a trio of valences draped the windows and were tied back by thick gold braided cords. Portraits of cavaliers and ladies were interspersed with exquisite landscapes of the English countryside, and the traditional English furniture was upholstered in a bold hunter green that blended perfectly with the gold and green French Aubusson carpet.

“Don't be silly, Luty, you always have an invitation here.” He moved toward her with his arms outstretched. Luty forced herself to smile and stay still as she accepted his embrace. She felt foolish for even entertaining the idea, but the truth was, she'd known him for many years, and to her way of seeing things, he'd always been too free with his hands. She'd always made sure that when they were together, there were lots of people around, but she didn't have that option now—she needed him.

Sir Nathan Ramshaw had started life as a chemist in Whitechapel and then had seen there was money to be made catering to the English in India. By the time he'd come back to England, he had owned a whole network of chemist shops, general merchandise stores, and half a dozen ships that traded goods all over the world. Luty and her late husband had originally met him in Los Angeles years ago.

Sir Nathan ushered her to the settee and then plopped his skinny frame next to her. He was on the short side with a long, bony face and a fringe of thinning white hair circling his bald spot. He didn't let go of her hand and he was so close, she could see the broken veins on his cheeks. “You will stay for tea?”

“Only if it's not a bother.” She gently extricated her fingers and eased away an inch or two.

“Don't be ridiculous, you know you're never a bother. Tea will be served in a moment. I ordered it as soon as the butler said you were here. I don't get many visitors these days, Luty, so it's always a treat to see you.”

Luty studied him for a moment and felt a rush of shame. The poor fellow was tickled to death to have company. He was just a lonely old man. His wife and his two sons were dead, and despite his money, he probably had lots of empty hours to fill. Suddenly, she realized how lucky she was and how her involvement with the household at Upper Edmonton Gardens had given meaning and purpose to her life. Gerald Witherspoon's staff had given her a beloved godchild as well as a circle of friends that would be there until she took her last breath. Nathan only had money. So she gave him a big smile, reached over, and patted his hand. “I'm pleased to be here, Nathan, but I warn ya, I've come for two reasons.”

“And what would that be?”

“One, I want to invite ya to dinner a week from Saturday, and two, I'm here to pick your brain about your time in Madras. I need your help.”

“My help, of course, Luty.” He stopped as the butler rolled in a tea trolley loaded with a silver service and numerous trays of cakes and biscuits.

“Shall I pour, sir?” the butler asked.

“Yes, please. Luty, would you like cake or biscuits or both?”

“Both, please.”

They waited until they'd been served before resuming their conversation. “Now, what is it you need to know?” Sir Nathan asked.

“You were in Madras in the 1880s, right?” She wanted to make sure she hadn't made a mistake.

“I was.”

“Did you have anything to do with the people at the army station at Fort George?” She nibbled on a piece of shortbread.

“Of course, they were customers. I opened my first pharmacy in Madras.”

“Did ya ever hear any of the gossip that was goin' on?”

He eased back against the cushions and thought for a moment. “I did. But do you mind if I ask what this is about?”

Luty decided to tell him the truth. If he spoke out of turn and told anyone what she was up to, she could counter it by saying he was getting senile. “Murder. I'm helping a friend of mine on a case. He's a police inspector.”

He stared at her for such a long time, she thought she'd miscalculated. But then he grinned. “Gracious, that is so exciting. What do you need to know?”

Luty thought back to the meetings in the inspector's kitchen and came up with what she thought was the best question. “Did you ever hear of someone named Hiram Filmore?”

“Oh yes, there were some very unsavory comments about that person.” Nathan took a quick sip of tea. “He would say anything for the right price.”

Luty tried to keep her excitement in check, but she had a feeling she'd hit the mother lode. “Say anything? What do ya mean?”

“Exactly what I said. The fellow testified in two different inquiries, and both times, his testimony ensured that
no one was prosecuted, even though two people died.” He broke off and looked away. “I was directly involved in one of them. I'll never forget it, either. It was awful. Absolutely awful.”

“Tell me about it,” Luty said.

He drew a quick breath and gave her a half smile. “I'm afraid, too, my conduct doesn't speak well of my character or my courage.”

“Nathan, there isn't a man or woman alive who gets to be our age that doesn't have a thing or two in their past we'd like to forget ever happened. But take my word for it, this is right important, and I wouldn't be askin' if it weren't important.”

“Alright, I've wanted to get this out into the open for a long time. When I was in Madras, a young native woman came to my pharmacy and begged me to help her. It was late at night, you see, and I'd stayed after closing time to mix some prescriptions to send off on the early train to Bangalore. The light was on and I heard someone knocking. When I answered the door, there was this young native woman. She said the local doctor wouldn't come with her and that her brother was dying.”

“You know how to doctor people?”

“I'm not a physician, but back in those days I had some skill in medicine and I'd helped one or two of the local people, which is why she came to my shop. So I went with her, but even if I'd been a fully qualified surgeon, I couldn't have helped that poor man. He'd been beaten within an inch of his life.” Nathan closed his eyes. “He was lying on a straw mat in one of their huts and he was covered in blood. His nose and most of his ribs were broken. I'm sure
he had massive internal injuries and he had a deep head wound. But there was nothing in my pharmacy bag that could save the poor fellow. A lovely young English girl was there. She was nursing him, trying her best to save his life, but it was too late.”

“What had happened to him?” But Luty suspected she knew.

“He'd been on his way to an inquest in Minjur, to give evidence in the drowning death of a young Anglo-American man, but he'd been set upon by thugs and beaten.” Nathan smiled sadly and cocked his head to one side. “A few moments after I got there, the young man died. Well, as you can imagine, I didn't hang about the place and I left. But I couldn't get it out of my mind. Both the English girl and the native woman were upset. They were certain the young man's injuries hadn't been caused by thugs but were the result of a plot to stop him testifying.”

“Testifying to what?” Luty asked.

“Something someone important wanted hushed up.” Nathan gave her a knowing look. “This man was a witness in the death of a young American man. It was supposedly an accident.”

“And you think this native man was going to testify that the death wasn't an accident.”

“I'm certain it wasn't an accident, but I had no way of ever proving it, not without losing my business or possibly my life.” He gave her a sad smile. “I know you must think me a coward. Back in the old days, your Leonard would have stood up for what was right without worrying about the cost to him, but I was scared, Luty, really scared, so I said and did nothing. I bitterly regret that I didn't pursue the matter.”

Luty reached over and patted his hand. “We all have regrets, Nathan. Leonard was a good man and a good husband, but he wasn't any better a human being than you. During our marriage, we did things to survive that we're not proud of, and that's one of the reasons I like to help the police when I can. It's a way of makin' up for some of our sins. Tell me the details about this situation.”

“Will this help your murder investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then perhaps there will be delayed justice for both those young men. The young native man was named Jairaj Dariwal, and he was going to testify against an English officer named Malcolm Rayburn when he was attacked. Malcolm and his friends, some fellow officers, had hazed the American fellow, a man named Anthony Treadwell—they'd held him under water unaware that he had a medical condition and he drowned. Young Jairaj witnessed this and was going to testify at the inquest for Treadwell's death. Rayburn and his cronies claimed they were just larking about with Treadwell, trying to teach him a lesson because he'd been overly forward to one of their young women.”

“What young woman?”

Nathan shook his head. “Her name was Helena Blackburn, I believe she later married Malcolm Rayburn. The English girl in the hut, the one who was trying to help, had been engaged to Treadwell.”

“What happened to her and the native lady?” Luty asked. But she had a feeling she already knew.

Nathan smiled. “They had a bit of a happy ending. But before I tell you that, there was another twist to the tale.
Anthony Treadwell's half brother came to investigate the whole affair and he was a rich and influential American. He used his resources to reopen the inquiry. That's where Filmore pops up again. He testified that he was on the riverbank during the incident and that there was no malice on the part of the English officers. The ruling came back accidental death.”

“And the happy ending?”

“The English lady married the American man, who took her and Jairaj's sister to America.” He leaned close to Luty. “But I've heard they're back in London and I'd love to meet them. Do you know either of them?”

“No, but I know people who do.” Luty wanted to keep him chatting. She'd noticed he was much like her and many other older people—the more you talked about something, the more details they remembered.

They spent another half hour together, and by the time Luty stepped into her carriage for the ride to Upper Edmonton Garden, she had an earful. She chuckled as she settled back in her seat. Hatchet was going to be fit to be tied.

*   *   *

“She'll not be happy to see us, sir,” Barnes murmured as they waited in the Martell drawing room.

“Nonetheless, we must interview her again.” Witherspoon frowned at the closed double doors. They'd been waiting for the lady of the house a good ten minutes now. “She might be one of the few people in London who can confirm Mrs. Stanway's accusations against Mrs. Rayburn.”

“If she knows about it.” Barnes got out his notebook and pencil. “Which she might because when Mrs. Stanway was
screaming at Helena Rayburn, she made mention there had been gossip about her late husband. Are you thinking we need Mrs. Martell's corroboration about the affair to prove that Helena Rayburn had a motive to murder Filmore?”

“All we have now is Mrs. Stanway's insistence that the letters were written by Mrs. Rayburn to her late husband, but as there are no signatures on any of the correspondence, additional corroboration would be useful.”

The doors opened and Isabelle Martell appeared. “My housekeeper says you wish to speak to me.”

“We do, Mrs. Martell, and it's about a rather delicate matter,” Witherspoon said.

She closed the doors, moved to the sofa, and gestured at the two wings chairs. “Please sit down,” she instructed.

As they moved to their seats, Barnes flicked a quick glance at the inspector and could tell by Witherspoon's raised eyebrows that he, too, was surprised by Mrs. Martell's offering them a seat.

“Thank you.” Witherspoon put his bowler on the side table and checked that the constable had his notebook at the ready. “Mrs. Martell, as I said, this is very delicate, but it's also very important that you tell us the truth.”

“I'm not in the habit of lying, Inspector, but do get on with your questions. I don't have much time today as I'm taking the night train to Paris.”

Witherspoon didn't like the sound of that. This case wasn't over as yet, and he didn't like the idea that any of the principals in the case would be leaving the country. But he had no grounds to stop her. “Paris? May I ask how long you'll be gone?”

“Long enough to pick up some new orchids.” She smiled
faintly. “Now that I've had a good look in Helena's conservatory, I know exactly what I need to do to win first prize. I've a plant supplier in Paris who has some exquisite vandas as well as a nice collection of calanthes. I should be back in London within a day or so. Why? What does it matter to the police how long I'm gone?”

“You're a witness in a murder, ma'am,” he explained. Didn't these women realize that a homicide investigation was more important than an orchid competition? “And your information could be of great value to us.”