Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (21 page)

“Then why not kill all of 'em?” Smythe asked.
“Malcolm Rayburn and Nigel Stanway are both dead, but you said there were four of 'em that were involved in Treadwell's death. Did she kill those two?”

“Sir Nathan wasn't sure, but he thought one of 'em might have died in India and he'd no idea what happened to the other one.” Luty shrugged. “Now, I ain't sayin' Mrs. Attwater did it for sure, but I think we ought to keep a close eye on her. She had the motive and she's the one who left the luncheon. She could have slipped into the conservatory and plunged them shears in Filmore's chest before she went home.”

“And Mrs. Clemments told the inspector she went into the conservatory because one of the maids had heard a noise,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded them. “But nonetheless, let's find out more before we form any definite conclusions.”

“I'll go next,” Ruth offered. She told them about her visit to her dressmaker and Jeannette's trip to the Attwater home. “Which, of course, makes the whole situation even more confusing.” She shook her head. “If Luty is right and the evidence could be pointing in that direction, then why would Mrs. Attwater involve a high-level government official to ensure that Gerald has every possible resource to solve the murder? He's solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police.”

“It would make more sense if she'd asked Sir Jeremy to take the inspector
off
the case,” Phyllis mused.

“We don't know that Mrs. Attwater is our killer.” Hatchet ignored Luty's glare and kept on speaking. “If Ruth is finished . . .” When she nodded, he continued. “I'll share what I learned today. My source didn't know anything about what happened years ago in India, but they
did know that Isabelle Martell took two hundred pounds in cash out of her bank a week before Hiram Filmore was murdered. The money was in five- and ten-pound notes.” Hatchet would die before he'd admit that he bribed half the bank clerks in London before he happened upon this tidbit of information.

“Isn't that the amount the inspector found in the envelope at Filmore's flat?” Mrs. Goodge pulled her rolling pin off the bottom shelf of her worktable and put it next to her mound of pastry.

“That sounds right.” Mrs. Jeffries was desperately trying to keep up with all the information but was afraid she was going to forget something important.

Wiggins looked at Hatchet. “If you're done, I'd like to say my bit. It's gettin' late and I want everyone to hear this before the inspector comes home.”

“I'm done.” Hatchet smiled at Luty, who snorted in disgust.

“I met one of the housemaids from the Rayburn house today,” Wiggins began. “And she told me somethin' right interesting.” He repeated what he'd learned from Amy Broadhurst, and as the others had, he took his time with the telling, making certain he left nothing out.

“So Mrs. Rayburn got a letter before she went out,” Betsy said. “That is interesting because the inspector found a letter in Filmore's shop supposedly from Mrs. Rayburn telling him to meet her in the conservatory. That doesn't make sense. Why would there be two letters?”

“Maybe one of 'em is a fake. Amy thinks the one that popped into the letter box is the reason Mrs. Rayburn went
out,” Wiggins argued. “She's sure of it, but it's only a feelin' she 'ad. Mrs. Rayburn didn't say as such to 'er.”

“Thus far, we've a motive for Mrs. Attwater to murder the victim, some strange doings between Mrs. Martell and Filmore involving money, and Mrs. Rayburn might have been left that morning because of a letter she either sent or received.” Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “I don't know what to make of any of this.”

“And what I've got to contribute won't help much,” Phyllis said. “The only thing I found out was that Susan, the Stanway maid, thinks the murder has distracted Mrs. Stanway from her usual cheap habits. Susan found one of Mrs. Stanway's expensive lace gloves on the floor, and when she asked the mistress where the other one was so she could launder it, Mrs. Stanway told her she'd left it on the omnibus. But this time, Mrs. Stanway didn't make her go halfway across town to retrieve it from the lost property office. Last time, Mrs. Stanway left her old carpetbag at Liverpool Station and made Susan go all the way there to get it.”

*   *   *

Witherspoon was late getting home that day. “Do we have time for a glass of sherry before dinner?” He handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler.

“It's chicken and ham pie, sir, and Mrs. Goodge only just took it out of the oven. She likes it to sit a half hour or so before it's served. There's also stewed lettuce, which isn't cooked as yet, and brown bread pudding. So we've plenty of time for a drink.”

“Excellent. I've had the most peculiar day and it will be helpful to get a woman's point of view.” He strode
down the hall and into the study. Mrs. Jeffries hurried after him.

She poured their sherry and took her seat. “Goodness, sir, now you've aroused my curiosity. What happened today?”

“A substantial incident, well, actually, more than one.” His brows drew together. “I think. To begin with, we went to speak to Mrs. Rayburn, and as expected, she denied writing the letter to Filmore instructing him to meet her in the conservatory. But before we left today, Constable Barnes showed it to Mrs. Clemments, and she confirmed the stationery was the same kind that Mrs. Rayburn uses.”

“Did Mrs. Clemments confirm it was Mrs. Rayburn's handwriting?”

“She wasn't able to do that, more's the pity.” He took a sip. “But then we asked Mrs. Rayburn about the love letters and that's where the day really got interesting.” He told her about Helena's reaction when she saw them and how they'd been interrupted by Thea Stanway. “But for once, I was quite grateful for Mrs. Stanway's appearance. She confirmed that there were only two women at the army station with the first name ‘Helena' and the other lady never went by her Christian name, but her middle name.”

“So the letters had to be written by Helena Rayburn?” Again, something tugged at the back of Mrs. Jeffries' mind, but her head was so full of facts, gossip, and insinuation from today that she couldn't grab the idea and hang on to it.

“They were, indeed, not that she ever admitted it, but Thea Stanway had even more information that confirmed our suspicions.” He tossed back the rest of his sherry and put his glass on the side table. “I imagine that poor woman now wishes she'd never set foot in the Rayburn house today.”

“I take it she stopped in to see if Mrs. Rayburn was alright?”

“Indeed, and what she found out there will no doubt haunt her for the rest of her life. She didn't deserve what happened today and I do feel sorry for her.”

“Let me get you another sherry, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries got up, grabbed his glass, and poured him another one. She didn't want him skimping on the details now. “What happened, sir?”

“Thea Stanway found out the recipient of those letters was none other than her own husband, Nigel Stanway.”

“Oh my goodness, that must have been dreadfully upsetting for her.”

“It was.” He took a quick drink and then told her the rest.

Mrs. Jeffries made no comment nor asked any questions as she listened to him. When he'd finished, she said, “Do you think Mrs. Stanway was entirely surprised to learn her husband had an affair?”

Taken aback, Witherspoon's mouth gaped open. “She appeared to be utterly stunned by the revelation. Her behavior certainly leads one to believe that she went into some sort of shock. She dashed about the drawing room, tossing letters willy-nilly even though she knew perfectly well they were evidence, then she kicked a rather expensive fire screen over and shattered it into pieces before she ran out, all the while accusing Mrs. Rayburn of murder and shouting threats that she'd see her hang for Filmore's death. Why did you ask? I mean, I'm astonished that you'd ask that particular question.”

Mrs. Jeffries was rather amazed herself, but that's the one that had popped into her head. “Because, sir, most of the
women I've known down through the years, even the stupid ones, generally have an inkling of suspicion when their spouses are unfaithful. I find it odd that she didn't, that's all.”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. “That's why I wanted your opinion. You know more about women than I do. But on the other hand, Nigel Stanway has been dead for years, and when a loved one is dead and buried, people remember the best of their character and forget their faults.”

“I doubt she'd have forgotten infidelity,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “What's more, from what you've described as her character, she seems the sort of woman who . . .” She broke off as she tried to think of how best to phrase what she needed to say.

“Likes to mind other people's business,” he finished. “Yes, Constable Barnes and I discussed that very thing afterward when we were on the way to interview Mrs. Martell. The constable pointed out that Mrs. Stanway's constant appearances at the Rayburn house was indicative of more than just being a ‘concerned friend.' I believe he actually used the term ‘nosey parker.'”

Mrs. Jeffries sent up a short, silent prayer of thanks that Barnes has said just the right thing to the inspector. As yet, she was still very confused about this case, but she had a feeling there was something right in front of them that none of them were seeing. “The constable is sometimes very blunt but usually correct.” She laughed. “I'm not suggesting that Mrs. Stanway actually knew her husband was having an affair with Mrs. Rayburn, but I do think she had some idea he was being unfaithful.”

“That's right, I forgot, that was one of the charges she hurled at Mrs. Rayburn.” He frowned as he repeated Thea
Stanway's words. “How stupid of me, I should have remembered that. Of course she suspected her husband of straying from his vows.”

“And apparently Helena Rayburn was the one who encouraged her not to listen to the gossip,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Why did you reinterview Mrs. Martell?”

“We needed her corroboration about the affair,” he replied. “The letters between the lovers weren't signed, and so all we had was Mrs. Stanway's insistence that they were between her late husband and Helena Rayburn.”

“What about the handwriting? Couldn't that be identified as Mrs. Rayburn's?”

“Possibly, but the Crown would put their witness on the stand saying it was her handwriting, and the defense counsel could easily call another witness, perhaps even an expert forger who might demonstrate to the court at large how easy it is to imitate handwriting. Mrs. Rayburn has resources, and I've no doubt that if she's arrested, she'll hire the best defense that money can buy.”

“And a smart barrister will cast doubt on the authenticity of the letters, and without them, Mrs. Rayburn's motive would also be in doubt.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “If she knew she hadn't written them, she wouldn't have been susceptible to blackmail.”

“That's right, but Isabelle Martell was in Madras as the same time as everyone involved and perhaps in a position to know the truth. So we spoke with her again.”

“What did she tell you?”

“At first she tried to pass it off as old gossip, but when I told her that Mrs. Stanway had identified both the writer and the recipient, she relented and admitted that Nigel
Stanway and Helena Rayburn were romantically involved. They met during the afternoons when Mrs. Stanway was at the infirmary and Colonel Rayburn was either at work or away on army business,” he said. “I didn't mention the word ‘blackmail.' Mrs. Martell brought it up on her own.”

“She knew that Filmore had threatened to blackmail Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Not specifically, but she told us that she thought Filmore got exactly what he deserved, that there were rumors about him when he worked at the infirmary.”

“What kind of rumors?” She wondered if Isabelle Martell had passed along the rumor that she herself had paid him off to lie about Colonel Martell's accidental death.

“That he was a thief, a liar, and a blackmailer.” He put his empty glass down and stood up. “But she refused to say more than that. We're going to speak to Mrs. Attwater tomorrow and see if she can help us. Perhaps she'll remember something that might be useful.”

“Are you going to arrest Mrs. Rayburn?” She got up, collected their empty glasses, and followed him out of the room. She still thought there was something right under their noses that none of them could see. But what was it?

He stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder. “I don't see that I've any choice in the matter. The other ladies might not have liked Mr. Filmore, but the evidence against Mrs. Rayburn is overwhelming.”

Mrs. Jeffries checked that the back door was locked and then went upstairs. When she reached the front door, she opened it and stepped out into the warm summer evening. The household was quiet, everyone save her had gone to bed, but she knew it would be useless to try and sleep. Easing the door shut, she locked it, tucked the key in her pocket, and then crept down the stairs. The gas streetlamp across the road shone brightly, but there was no moon, so if she kept to the shadows, it was dark enough for her to feel safe.

She kept to her side of the street as she made her way to the corner. This case was quickly moving from simple confusion to hopelessly muddled, and before it reached that particular stage, she wanted to have a nice long think about it. Nightwalking, as she thought of it, cleared her mind and helped get her thoughts in order.

At the corner, she turned left onto Addison Road and hurried toward the Uxbridge Road, where she crossed and moved onto Royal Crescent. Here there was very little traffic and few pedestrians. She slowed her steps, breathed deeply, and let her thoughts wander.

Tomorrow the inspector would arrest Helena Rayburn, and logically, there was no reason why he shouldn't. She'd lied repeatedly when confronted with evidence that linked her to the crime, she was being blackmailed by the victim, and she had no alibi for the time of death. But if she'd hated and feared Filmore, why had she introduced him to her garden club and given him a substantial amount of business?

A hansom cab turned onto the street, and she quickly stepped back under the overhanging branches of a tree to avoid being seen. Whoever was in the cab was probably harmless, but as a lone woman walking at night, she was taking no chances. When the cab passed, she stepped out and continued her journey.

There were so many questions about this case. If Filmore was a blackmailer, was Helena Rayburn the only one he'd threatened? Had he approached Isabelle Martell? If she'd paid him to lie about her husband's suicide all those years ago, he could hardly claim the high road and threaten to expose her without exposing his own complicity. But he could start some nasty rumors, she thought, and Isabelle Martell, by her own admission, wanted to move into the highest reaches of society. But was that enough of a motive for murder? Would she kill to protect her social reputation?

Mrs. Jeffries reached the corner and turned onto Darnley Place, an even quieter street. Her mind leapt from one
thought to another, and she didn't try to force any order to them; she merely let them come. What about Chloe Attwater? If what Luty had told them was true, Mrs. Attwater had the strongest motive of all for murdering Filmore. His testimony helped the men who'd murdered the man she loved avoid punishment. But surely, if she were the killer, she'd not have used her influence to keep Inspector Witherspoon on the case. On the other hand, she'd paid a young lad to keep an eye on Helena's house. Why?

Mrs. Jeffries reached the end of the street and stood there for a moment trying to decide whether to go left, which meant she'd have to walk past the The Queens Arms Pub to get home, or turn right, which was a quieter but longer route. She turned right. The Queens Road was busy, but there were plenty of spots along the way where she could step into the shadows and conceal herself if the need arose.

A hundred yards ahead, two men wearing evening dress came out of a house, so she slowed her pace until they were far enough away to be safely ignored. She went back to her thinking. Chloe Attwater wasn't the only one with prying eyes. Lord Pennington's syndicate had a boy watching Filmore, and Thea Stanway stood vigil at her old nanny's window so much that everyone in the neighborhood had spotted her. But the question was why? What did any of these snoops hope to gain? Lord Pennington's syndicate was the only one that made sense; they had a financial reason for wanting to know that Filmore was in London and not on a collecting trip. She wondered if the woman watching Filmore's shop was also one of Pennington's spies?

As she approached the corner of Addison Road North,
she moved as far away from the gas lamp as possible before turning and heading home. There wasn't much time left. Tomorrow, the inspector would probably arrest Helena Rayburn. There was ample evidence linking her to the crime but somehow it didn't feel right.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned and shook her head in disbelief. Right now her feelings weren't important. Everything they knew about this case was jumbled into a terrible muddle of old sins, innuendos, half-truths, and social-climbing widows trying to out do one another. What she needed was to remember the real reasons that people committed murder. As her late husband used to say, no matter how complicated the crime appears, when someone is killed, it's usually for one of three reasons: money, love, or vengeance.

*   *   *

Samson was curled on Mrs. Goodge's lap when she suddenly stopped stroking his fur and turned toward the back stairs. “Are you talking to me?” she asked as Mrs. Jeffries hurried into the kitchen. “I could hear you all the way down the stairs.”

The cat head-butted the cook's arm in an attempt to get the petting restarted, but her attention was on the housekeeper.

“No, no.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled sheepishly. “Unfortunately, you caught me talking to myself.”

“You were havin' a right old chat with yourself. You kept goin' on and on about some letters. There's so many notes and letters with this murder that I can't keep them straight in my head. So which ones are they?” She resumed stroking the cat.

“The only ones that matter.” Mrs. Jeffries came to the table and poured a cup of tea. “The ones that I hope will prove Helena Rayburn is innocent. I do hope that Constable Barnes is early today; there's something he must do. I heard the inspector up and about when I came down, so he'll be wanting his breakfast quickly.”

“It's in the warming oven. But you've sussed it out, haven't you.” Mrs. Goodge grinned broadly. “I knew you would.”

“I haven't, I've just got an idea, but there is a very good chance that all my assumptions about this case are dead wrong.” She helped herself to a lump of sugar, gave her tea a stir, and had started to pull out her chair when there was a light knock on the back door. “Thank goodness, he's early today.”

A few moments later, Samson had given the visitor a good hiss, Mrs. Goodge had handed off the inspector's breakfast tray to Phyllis, and the two senior members of the household were huddled at the end of the table with the constable.

Barnes looked at Mrs. Jeffries as he reached for his mug. “I'm sure the inspector gave you a full report about yesterday's activities.”

“He did,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Constable, he also said that Helena Rayburn might be arrested today.”

“The evidence against her is strong,” he hesitated.

“But you don't believe she's guilty,” Mrs. Jeffries charged.

“And neither does Hepzibah,” Mrs. Goodge interjected. “And she's usually right.”

“That's true,” Barnes agreed. “But none of the evidence points to anyone else.”

“Not yet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I think there might be a way to prove she didn't do it and to catch the person who did.”

The constable eyed her speculatively. “What do you want me to do?”

“It's very simple, and once you find out these few facts, if you come to the same conclusion as I have, then I know we'll be right.”

By the time she'd finished and Phyllis arrived with the inspector's dirty dishes, Barnes was fully apprised of what needed to be done. He got to his feet, and just then, there was a knock on the back door.

“I'll get it.” Phyllis popped the tray on the worktable and disappeared down the corridor. “Why, Constable Griffiths, this is a surprise.”

“I need to speak to Constable Barnes or the inspector,” he said.

“Come in, then.”

A moment later, they entered the kitchen. Griffiths nodded smartly to the two women and then addressed Barnes. “Sorry to interrupt your day, but I've got a message from the duty sergeant. He wants you and the inspector to come to the station before you go anywhere else.”

“Why, what's wrong? Someone confess?”

“That would be good, sir, but no.” Griffiths grinned. “There's a man at the station the inspector needs to interview about the Filmore murder. The constable at Filmore's shop sent him along to us, sir. He's demanding to see Inspector Witherspoon. He claims he needs to get into the shop because Filmore sold him all the fixtures and fittings. He's got a legitimate bill of sale. He says Filmore
was supposed to meet him at the shop at seven this morning.”

“He didn't know Filmore was dead?” Barnes raised his eyebrows. “Ye gods, it's been in all the papers.”

“He didn't know. He said he just arrived this morning on the night train from Liverpool. He's in a bit of a hurry, sir. He's rented a wagon and hired three workers.”

Mrs. Jeffries was itching to ask questions but knew that she couldn't.

“Did he say why Filmore was selling his fixtures and fittings?” Barnes asked.

“Oh yes, sir, he claimed Filmore was selling the shop and going out to the East to do some orchid hunting.”

“This is the first we've heard of this,” Barnes said.

Mrs. Jeffries was very grateful. He was asking just the right questions.

“That's what the duty officer told Mr. Tinworth, sir, that's the gentleman's name. He said Mr. Filmore had told him everything had to be kept confidential because he didn't want his competitors to know his business,” Griffiths replied. “What should I do, sir?”

“We'll come to the station, Constable,” Barnes said. “You go back and tell them we'll be there in a few minutes. Give this Mr. Tinworth a cup of tea and have him hold his horses.”

As soon as Griffiths disappeared with Phyllis down the corridor, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Thank you, Constable. I know you kept Constable Griffiths talking longer than necessary so we could hear the latest information.”

“I hope it was useful.”

“It was very useful. I know that the interview with Mr.
Tinworth is important and that has to be your top priority.”

“We'll get to your task as soon as we're done,” he assured her. “Don't worry, I'll make sure no one is arrested just yet.”

As soon as the two policemen had left, the household took care of the chores and got the kitchen ready for their morning meeting.

Smythe, Betsy, and Amanda arrived first. “Thank goodness,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed when the three of them entered the kitchen. “I'm so glad you're here.” She looked at Smythe. “I need you to do something.”

“You've sussed it out.” He laughed and looked at Betsy. “You owe me half a guinea. I told you she'd 'ave the answer today.”

Amanda held out her arms and started gurgling happily when she saw Mrs. Goodge. Betsy plopped the child into the cook's lap. “You've not won yet,” she told her husband. “It might still be tomorrow before she does it.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “Flattering as your faith in me might be, we've much to do today and little time to do it in.” She heard the back door open again.

“Figured it out, have ya,” Luty cried as she and Hatchet entered. “It's about time, too.”

“She's got it,” Wiggins said as he took his seat. “Phyllis said she's got that look in her eyes now.”

“There is no look,” Mrs. Jeffries began only to be interrupted by the maid.

“Oh, but there is, you've had it all morning.” She took her spot at the table. “So what is it you need us to do?”

Half an hour later, she'd given them a concise but thorough report on what she'd learned from the inspector and Barnes before sending Smythe, Wiggins, and Phyllis off to learn some very specific information.

When they'd gone, Luty looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, you can use your resources in the financial community and see if you can find out how much money Chloe Attwater, Isabelle Martell, and Thea Stanway have at the moment. Is that possible?”

Luty grinned. “I'll have to call in a lot of favors, but there's a boatload of bankers in this town that owe me a few.”

“What, if anything, should I try to learn?” Hatchet asked.

“We need to find out what Isabelle Martell and Chloe Attwater did after they left the Rayburn home on the day of the murder,” she said. “I don't know if that's possible, but do you think you can try?”

“Let me take Isabelle Martell,” Ruth suggested with an apologetic smile at Hatchet. “I don't mean to intrude on your task—”

“It's quite alright,” he interrupted. “It might take me hours to find out what even one of those women were doing later that day so I'm glad for the help.”

*   *   *

Smythe banged on the back door of the Dirty Duck. It was too early for opening but he hoped that Blimpey would be inside having a cup of tea.

The door opened and Eldon, Blimpey's man-of-all-work, stuck his head out. “Hello, Smythe, you wantin' to see the guv?”

“It's right important, Eldon. Is 'e here?”

Eldon ushered him inside. “Come on in, his nibs is having a cuppa. He's in a good mood, too. Should I bring you somethin' to drink?”

“No, I'm fine, but thanks.”

Blimpey looked up from the paper he was reading. “Bloomin' Ada, you're early.”

“I need your 'elp.” Smythe took the stool across from him. “You said that lad that was keepin' an eye on Filmore's place was workin' for you now?”

“That's right.”

“Can we find 'im right quick? I need to ask 'im somethin'.”

“Mrs. Jeffries has figured it out, has she.” Blimpey lifted his heavy ceramic mug and drained it. “Took 'er long enough.”

“Blast a Spaniard.” Smythe felt obligated to defend Mrs. Jeffries' honor. “It's only been a few days since Filmore got killed.”