Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (23 page)

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Everyone, except Wiggins, was back in the kitchen well before the usual time of their afternoon meeting.

“You'll have to wait till the kettle boils before we can have tea,” the cook warned as they took their places at the table. “And all I've got to go with it is half a seed cake and a loaf of brown bread.”

“That will be plenty.” Mrs. Jeffries put the cake on the table next to the cake knife and the stack of plates. “Should we wait for Wiggins? No, that won't do, let's get on with it and I can catch him up when he arrives. Phyllis, were you successful?”

“I was. Susan wasn't thrilled to see me, but lucky for her, Mrs. Stanway wasn't home,” Phyllis said. “She said that on Monday, Thea Stanway didn't get home till past ten o'clock that night.”

“Excellent, Phyllis.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded, relieved that her theory now had a few facts to back it up. “Smythe, how did you fare?”

“Pennington's lad was watching Filmore for the past month. A week before the murder, he followed him to Hammersmith Cemetery. The boy hid behind a headstone and kept watch. Filmore met a woman there and she gave him something.”

“Did the lad see what it was?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“He wasn't sure, but he thinks it was a letter.” Smythe moved slightly so Mrs. Goodge could put the teapot on the table. “But I asked if he could identify her if he saw her again. He says he got a good look at her face.”

“Can we get him here quickly if we need him?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot and poured it into the waiting ring of cups.

“He wasn't keen on that, but I think I convinced the boy to do 'is duty.” He gave the housekeeper a knowing smile that she acknowledged with a barely imperceptible nod of her head. Smythe had crossed his palm with enough silver to ensure the boy would tell the truth. “Good, this case is coming together for us.” She passed the tea down the table.

“I'm glad everyone else has done well.” Ruth's expression was forlorn. “All I found out was that Isabelle Martell was supposed to be at the Stanfields' dinner party Monday night but she didn't show. Hilda Stanfield was furious about it, too. Isabelle's excuse was that she was suddenly taken ill that evening.”

“Don't look so disappointed, you've done better than I have,” Hatchet complained. “I couldn't find any source that knew anything about Mrs. Attwater's whereabouts after she met with Sir Jeremy Sanders that afternoon.”

“So we don't know if she stayed in or went out?” Mrs.
Jeffries pursed her lips. “That's unfortunate, but it'll need to suffice. Luty, what did you find out?”

“I didn't have a lot of time, but I found out that Chloe Attwater is as rich as we thought—she's got plenty. Isabelle Martell is doin' alright, too, but it wasn't inherited cash. She spent most of the inheritance from her husband on that fancy house she lives in, but she invested the rest and built up a tidy sum. The lady has a good head for business and doesn't use an advisor or broker. She takes care of her own investin'.”

“Helena Rayburn?”

“She's almost broke.” Luty put a lump of sugar in her tea. “All she's got is her late husband's pension. There used to be some income from investments, but it's dried up, and Thea Stanway doesn't have much, either. Her husband's family has money, but he died years before his siblings so all the Stanway family cash went to them. I heard somethin' else funny about her—the banker I was chattin' with mentioned that his brother-in-law was Nigel Stanway's doctor, and he thought Stanway was on the mend then the feller up and died. Stanway was supposed to have had some kind of tropical fever, but there was somethin' about his death that hit the doctor wrong. There wasn't anything he could do about it, the man had been ill a long time, so it wasn't considered a suspicious death.”

“There was no evidence of poisoning?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Our conversation didn't get that detailed,” Luty replied.

Just then they heard the back door open, slam shut, and footsteps racing up the corridor. Fred, who'd been asleep
on his rug, jumped up and rushed to greet his best friend. “Cor blimey, Fred, get down, I've only been gone a few hours.” Wiggins hurried into the kitchen with the dog trotting at his heels. “Sorry to be late, but I 'ad my reasons.” He pulled out his chair and flopped down. “I don't mean to be rude, but you've got to 'ear what I 'ave to say. Somethin' is getting ready to 'appen at the Rayburn place.”

“What?” Mrs. Jeffries demanded. Smythe and Hatchet were already on their feet.

“The lad I spoke with today saw someone goin' into the mews on the morning of the murder and it wasn't Mrs. Rayburn.”

“Who was it?” Mrs. Jeffries' hands balled into fists.

“It was Mrs. Stanway, but that's not important now,” Wiggins cried. “I did what you said and 'ad a word with the boy Mrs. Attwater paid to keep an eye on the Rayburn house, and we need for the inspector to 'ear what he's got to say. We went to the Attwater house 'cause Kevin had to tell Mrs. Attwater that he'd seen Mrs. Stanway goin' into her old nanny's house today. But when Kevin and I got there, the inspector and Constable Barnes come out, and before the lad and I could get round the back and tell Mrs. Attwater what he'd seen, as soon as we'd got shut of them, a carriage drew up and Mrs. Attwater raced out the front door and got into it. That's why I'm so late, I told Kevin to come 'ere while I followed the carriage. He's outside now waitin' for me. It's a good thing I know this part of London like the back of my hand; otherwise I'd never 'ave kept up.”

“Where did the carriage go?” A frisson of alarm climbed the housekeeper's spine.

“To the Rayburn house.” Wiggins looked worried. “And what's more, I saw Mrs. Martell get out and practically drag Mrs. Attwater into the house. I don't know what's goin' on—that's why I raced back 'ere. What should we do?”

“Should we go?” Smythe was already on his feet and Hatchet got up as well. They both knew what was expected. Wiggins pushed his chair back and joined them.

“Let us know what's going on,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered.

“You be careful,” Betsy called to her husband, who stopped long enough to blow her a kiss.

Luty got up. “Maybe I ought to go, too. My Peacemaker might come in handy.”

Hatchet skidded to a stop and turned. “That won't be necessary, madam.” He patted his coat pocket. “I'm equipped to handle any emergencies.”

“Still, I might come in useful,” Luty called. But Hatchet merely gave her a good frown and hurried to join the others.

“Nell's bells, they never want me to have any fun,” Luty muttered as she flopped back into her chair.

Ruth waited until the door slammed before she turned her attention to Mrs. Jeffries. “I don't understand what is going on, but is Gerald safe?”

Mrs. Jeffries hesitated and it was Luty who answered. “Don't worry, Ruth, the men will make sure nothin' happens to him.” She turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “Can you tell us what's goin' on now?”

A knot of dread coiled in Mrs. Jeffries' stomach but she dared not show her true feelings. If she was wrong, it could be disastrous for all of them. “I'm not certain,” she began.

“Not certain,” Ruth interrupted, her eyes pooling with tears. “Hepzibah, I almost lost Gerald on our last case. Please tell me you know what's going to happen.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought she knew what was happening, but she wasn't a hundred percent positive. There was always a chance she was wrong and that her evaluation of what she assumed were the facts in the case was completely wrong. “No one knows every detail of the future, but I've a feeling that, by now, our inspector has determined that Helena Rayburn had nothing to do with Filmore's death. What's more, I think it is certain that he's realized there has been a deliberate attempt to manipulate the evidence in such a way as to ensure that the wrong person is arrested for Filmore's murder.”

“You mean Helena Rayburn,” Betsy guessed. “She's the wrong person?”

“That's right and the person who did kill Hiram Filmore has hated her for a long, long time.”

“That was very clever of you, Constable,” Witherspoon remarked as he and Constable Barnes turned the corner onto the High Street. “I've no idea what made you ask that particular question of Mrs. Attwater, but it most certainly set the cat amongst the pigeons.”

Barnes was ready with an answer. “I'm embarrassed to tell you, sir, but my wife heard some gossip from one of our neighbors and I took a chance that what she passed along to me might have a grain of truth in it. Sorry, sir, I know you don't like me discussing our cases . . .” He let his voice trail off.

The inspector waved at a hansom cab dropping a fare two houses down. “Don't be ridiculous, Constable, of course you must talk to your wife. I'm not married, but I discuss our investigations with Mrs. Jeffries and Lady Cannonberry. In our sort of work, it helps to be able to
talk about it with a sympathetic ear.” The cab pulled up at the curb and he climbed inside as Barnes gave the driver the address.

“I'm please you understand, sir,” the constable said as he settled into his seat. “My wife does love hearing about our cases. She's a great admirer of yours, as apparently is Mrs. Attwater.”

Witherspoon smiled self-consciously. “Really, Constable, your name was mentioned as well, but we mustn't get our heads turned by flattery. We must keep digging on this case.”

“What are you going to ask Mrs. Gilchrist?” Barnes relaxed a bit. He'd been walking on thin ice all day, and at his age, the stress was telling. But now it seemed as if the inspector had turned his sights away from Helena Rayburn and onto the real target.

Witherspoon grabbed the handhold as the hansom hit a pothole. “I want her to verify that Mrs. Stanway was in her flat from the time Mr. Tufts, the Rayburn gardener, was in the conservatory, until she went to the luncheon. It ought to be simple enough.”

They discussed the case as the cab traversed the short distance to Bellwood Place. Barnes paid the driver and then glanced across the road to the Rayburn home. “Your instincts are sound, sir,” he said as they headed for the front door. “I don't think Helena Rayburn did it, either.”

“Yes, we both know who we think killed Filmore, but we'll have a devil of a time proving it.”

A few moments later, they were knocking on the front door of Mrs. Gilchrist's flat. When the door opened, Witherspoon's heart sank. The woman standing in front of them
was old and her eyes were covered with cataracts. “Who is it?” she asked.

“It's the police, ma'am,” Barnes said. “May I take your hand so you can run your fingers over my badge?”

“That won't be necessary, my eyesight isn't very good, but I can see enough to know you're the police.” She held the door open. “Please come in. Is this about that awful murder across the street?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes stepped inside. “I'm Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes. You are Mrs. Gilchrist?”

“I am.” She waited for them to cross the threshold and then closed the door. “Please, come in,” she shuffled past them into the drawing room.

The flat was neat and tidy, a three-piece suite of muddy brown horsehair was arranged in front of the sitting room windows, a small dining alcove with a table and four chairs was visible in the little kitchen, and an open door on the far side of the room revealed a bedroom with a single brass bedstead covered with a cream-colored chenille spread. The walls were painted a pale yellow and decorated with needlepoint of biblical homilies, birds, butterflies, and woodland animals in square and oval frames.

She made her way to one of the armchairs by the window and sat down. “I'm quite happy to answer your questions, but I must tell you that I didn't see anything.” She lifted her hand and gestured at her eyes. “Cataracts, Inspector, I can't see that far.”

“That's quite all right, ma'am.” Witherspoon put his bowler on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “As you're
aware, there's been a murder across the street. It was a man named Hiram Filmore.”

“I know who he was, Inspector. I'm half-blind, not senile. He was killed in Helena Rayburn's greenhouse either before, during, or after a luncheon for her lady friends.”

“Of course, ma'am, I didn't mean to imply your faculties were wanting,” the inspector said. He glanced toward the constable and noticed that Barnes was moving slowly backward to the coat cupboard.

“I'm sure you didn't. Would you and your constable like to sit down?” She waved her hand toward the chairs. “You'll be more comfortable.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Witherspoon sat down.

“I'd prefer to stand, ma'am,” Barnes said quickly. “My hip bothers me if I sit too much.”

“Of course.” She nodded in his direction and then turned her half-blind gaze to Witherspoon and waited expectantly.

“As you know, Mrs. Stanway was one of the guests at Monday's luncheon.” Witherspoon tried to think of a tactful way to phrase the question. “As a police officer, it's my duty to confirm witness statements, and Mrs. Stanway has stated she was here with you until she went to the luncheon. Is that correct?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Barnes move. He flicked a quick glance at the constable and saw he was now directly in front of the closet.

Mrs. Gilchrist bobbed her head. “She was here that day. My Thea grew into a very thoughtful and generous woman. She comes to visit me almost every day. As a matter of fact, she was here today.”

“What time did she arrive on Monday?”

“She usually comes between ten and half past. I don't know the exact time she arrived on Monday but it was probably close to a quarter past the hour.” She grinned broadly, revealing a mouthful of surprisingly white teeth. “She'd bought me my birthday present. When you get to be my age, Inspector, having another birthday means you've beaten the grim reaper one more time.” She cackled at her own wit.

“Yes, ma'am, I'm sure that's true.” He glanced at Barnes again and saw the constable staring down at the floor. “What time did Mrs. Stanway leave to go to the luncheon?”

“It was probably close to half past twelve, yes, that's right. I remember now, she woke me up. I'd fallen asleep, you see. Too much indulgence in my birthday present, and she had to shake me awake. She said, ‘Nanny, I've got to go, it's almost half twelve.'”

“So you were asleep for some of the time she was here with you?” Witherspoon leaned closer to her.

She smiled sheepishly. “I'm ashamed to admit it, because I do so look forward to her visits, but I fell asleep within minutes of drinking my whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”

“That was my birthday present from her, a lovely bottle of Laphroaig. It's expensive so I don't get it often, but she'd brought me one and insisted I have a drink with her. Who could resist? It's a great treat, Inspector, and when you get to be my age, you take a nice treat whenever one is offered.”

“I understand,” he said. “So you were asleep by when? A quarter to eleven? Would that be correct?”

“Yes, I expect it was about then that I nodded off.” Her brows drew together in a frown. “Whiskey doesn't usually put me to sleep. But I expect the Laphroaig was a better quality than the bottle Mr. Crannock sends me every Friday.”

“You drink a bottle a week?”

“I'm an old lady, Inspector,” she retorted with a smile. “And I have few pleasures left in life. But I do like my drink. I've an account with the pub around the corner. He sends me a bottle of whiskey every Friday and I make it last the whole week.”

Witherspoon was no expert on spirits, he knew that the quality could vary greatly from one brand to another, but he thought the actual alcohol content was standard. As a matter of fact, he knew it was, since it was determined by statute. “But the drink you had on Monday made you fall asleep? Did Mrs. Stanway pour you a larger than usual glass?”

“No, it was the same amount I usually drink.” She gave him a sharp, hard stare and fixed her clouded gaze on him. “What are you implying, Inspector?”

“I'm not implying anything,” he protested. “I'm just asking questions.”

“You're trying to say that while I was asleep, she might have slipped across the road and murdered that man?”

“We're just trying to get at the facts, ma'am.”

“No, you want me to say she wasn't here at that time, but she was here.” She slapped her hands against the chair arms. “Now I'll thank you to leave. You'll not get me to say another word against her.”

“If you want to prove that she's innocent, let us have
a look around your flat, Mrs. Gilchrist.” Barnes had left his spot by the coat closet and come up behind her chair.

She twisted in her seat. “I don't need proof she's innocent. I know she wouldn't do something as awful as murder.”

“Then let us have a look around.” He kept his voice level, as though the matter were of no importance. “Unless, of course, you'd rather we come back with a warrant? You do understand this is a murder investigation, and we do have the legal right to search any premises that we suspect has evidence of the crime.”

“There is no evidence,” she cried. “But go ahead, then, search to your heart's content and then I may or may not accept your apology.”

Witherspoon wasn't sure what Barnes was trying to accomplish, but he trusted the constable to know what he was doing. He got up. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilchrist, I assure you we'll be as quick as possible and we'll put everything back in the proper place.”

Barnes was already at the coat closet. He yanked open the door, scanned the inside, and then dragged out an old carpetbag. It had once been a brilliant red decorated with blue medallions and gold fleurs-de-lis but was now faded and bare in spots. The leather handle was frayed and the clasp was loose. Barnes picked it up carefully and carried it to the chair Witherspoon had just vacated. He put it down on the seat, opened it, and looked inside. “It's lined with oilcloth.”

“What is it? What are you doing?” She focused her gaze on the chair. “Is that my carpetbag?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The constable kept on rummaging through the contents.

“It can't be, my bag isn't lined with oilcloth.”

“It's not sewn in, ma'am.” Barnes pulled out a square brown box and handed it to Witherspoon.

He opened it and took out three sheets of folded paper—two of them were fancy cream-colored stationery and one was plain notepaper of the kind one used in a busy household or office.

Barnes gave them a quick glance and went back to digging through the bag. “The cream-colored paper matches the stationery Helena Rayburn uses.”

“Let's start with the plain notepaper first.” Witherspoon unfolded the top one, stared at it for a moment, and then said, “Constable, look at this.” He handed it to Barnes. “It's a list of dates, and there's a small, personal item by each date and next to that a name. The same name all the way down to the bottom of the page.”

The constable scanned the contents then glanced at Mrs. Gilchrist, who was watching them with squinted eyes, trying to see what was happening. He put the list down next to the open carpetbag. “What's on the stationery?”

Witherspoon unfolded it and took a look. He handed it to the constable. “It appears she was practicing.” He flicked open the last piece of stationery. “Same with this one. She's apparently practiced not just the signature, but the lady's handwriting. There's probably a sample somewhere in that bag.”

Barnes dug farther into the bag until his fingers brushed against a hard, rounded object. He pulled out a small, brown bottle and held it close enough for the inspector to read the label. “I think this explains why Mrs. Gilchrist fell asleep, sir.”

“What explains it?” she cried. “Tell me what you're doing. This is my house, I have a right to know.”

“We're taking your carpetbag into evidence, Mrs. Gilchrist,” Witherspoon said gently. “And it appears that the reason you slept so soundly on Monday was because there was laudanum in your whiskey.”

*   *   *

Across the street, Helena Rayburn had no idea that an unwelcome visitor had come through her conservatory and into the house. The servants, the only people who would have been able to stop this intrusion, were in the butler's pantry enjoying a very lavish afternoon tea that the mistress had surprised them with earlier today. All of them were stuffing cream cakes, shortbread biscuits, and gooseberry tarts into their mouths as fast as possible.

“But surely you see that your reputation is at risk as well,” Helena said to her guest.

“I agreed to come here because Isabelle begged me to listen to what you had to say.” Chloe Attwater gave Isabelle Martell a quick, stern glance. “But so far, you've said nothing worth hearing.”

Helena stepped away from the fireplace and stopped next to a wingchair. “You're being deliberately obtuse. You know perfectly well that none of our reputations will be enhanced by a scandal, and I might remind you that you've been gone from England for years. Isabelle and I have been right here, and socially, our word will carry far more weight than yours. So if you want a decent place in society, a place where your money won't have any influence, you'll do what I say.”

“And what precisely is that?” Chloe leaned forward in
her chair, balancing herself on her parasol. She was enjoying herself immensely.

“We've already told you. We want you to speak to Thea Stanway and make sure she doesn't spread gossip all over town.”

“Why would she listen to me?” Chloe interrupted. “I've no influence over the woman.”

“You've more influence than we do at the moment,” Isabelle muttered.

Helena ignored both their comments. “Secondly, stop telling the police every little detail about what happened all those years ago in India. That matter does none of us any credit. It's ancient history.”