Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (19 page)

“I know what you mean. My mistress is a bit like that as well.” She put her cup down and giggled. “She was goin’ on and on at breakfast about the Banfields like they was friends. But Mr. Banfield barely nods to her when he passes her on the street, and old Mrs. Banfield won’t even do that much—she pretends not to see her.”

“So your mistress wasn’t at the ball? She didn’t see the murder?”

“She weren’t invited, but when her lady friends come over for tea, she talked about it like she’d been there.” She made a face. “But the truth is, I know more about them than she does. I have my afternoon out with their tweeny and she tells me all sorts of interestin’ things.”

He pretended to be impressed. “Cor blimey, you’ve a friend in the Banfield household? I’ll bet you know a lot.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I know everything, but Fanny—she’s my friend—she does talk about the family. I know servants aren’t supposed to do that—you know, tellin’ tales about their households—but it’s only natural to chat about it, isn’t it? My household isn’t very interesting. There’s just the master and mistress and they wouldn’t raise their voices if the ruddy house was on fire.” She giggled. “Thank goodness I met Fanny, otherwise I’d have to take my afternoon out on my own and that’s never very nice.”

Wiggins drew back. Most housemaids in London went home to visit their families on their afternoon off. “You don’t go see your family?”

“My parents are both gone and my sister went to Australia when she got married last year. But she promised she’d send for me once she and Liam got settled in. That’s why I don’t mind being in service. I’ll be off to Australia soon and you’ve got to work hard if you want to make a go of it there. But I’m not scared of a bit of hard work.”

“I hope she sends for you soon,” he replied. “But anyway, what did your friend tell you about the Banfields?” He cautioned himself not to expect too much. Emma might be as prone to exaggeration as her mistress.

“Well, Fanny says that none of the servants like the older Mrs. Banfield. She’s a right old tartar.”

“That’s what my guv said to his missus,” he agreed.

“She’s always checking to make sure that poor Fanny is doin’ her work properly.” Emma leaned across the table, her expression serious. “You know what I mean, running her fingers along the banisters and checking the very tops of the tallboys on the landings. I feel ever so sorry for Fanny.” She popped the last bite of the bun into her mouth.

“But lots of households is real strict,” he pushed.

“Yes, but Mrs. Banfield isn’t just strict, she’s downright mean. Two weeks ago when I met Fanny for our afternoon out, she told me her back was hurtin’ like the very devil. Mrs. Banfield had sent her up to the attic to bring down one of her old trunks. When Fanny realized how heavy the ruddy thing was, she nipped downstairs to find a footman to help her with it, but Mrs. Banfield was standing in the hallway and told her to do it herself! Can you believe it? Poor Fanny is only a little slip of a thing and she had to drag that blooming trunk down three flights to Mrs. Banfield’s room. Then an hour later she had to drag it back up to the attic.” She shook her head in disgust. “Treatin’ people like that is wrong, especially as all the old woman wanted was some silly book full of newspaper cuttings. Fanny saw it lying on her desk when she went in to dust.”

“Why didn’t she just have Fanny get her the book?” he mused. He was disappointed but determined not to let it show. Emma seemed a nice girl and it wasn’t her fault that she didn’t know anything about the Banfield household that might be useful. “Seems to me that would have been easier than draggin’ a trunk to and fro.”

She giggled again. “That’s what Fanny thought.”

 

The police station on Harrow Road was housed in a narrow redbrick building next to a pub. “This shouldn’t take too long,” Witherspoon said as he went up the short, wide steps to the front door. “We’ll still have time to get to Mayfair and have a word with Mrs. Kimball.” They’d stopped to pick up the reports and have a word with the local constables.

“I wish I’d been able to have a word with the Banfield butler,” Barnes complained as he held open the door for the inspector. “But every time I tried to speak to him, he’d been sent off on an errand or had disappeared up to the attic.”

Witherspoon stopped just inside the doorway. “Did you try to see him today?”

Barnes nodded. “Yes. When you pulled Mr. Banfield aside to get the address for Mrs. Banfield’s parents, I nipped down to the kitchen and told Mrs. Peyton I’d like to have a word with the man. But he’d already left on an errand.”

“Oh yes.” Witherspoon sighed. “After that altercation with his aunt, it took Mr. Banfield quite a while to calm down and then it took him ages to lay hands on the Montroses’ street address. I wondered where you’d got to. Where had they sent the man?”

“To the Banfield summer house to pick up china and linens for the funeral.” Barnes pursed his lips in disapproval. “Honest to goodness, you’d think these people would realize this is a murder investigation and stay still long enough for me to take their ruddy statements.”

“Gracious, they sent the butler to do that? Why not a footman?” Witherspoon started across the gray linoleum floor toward the counter.

The constable followed. “Who knows? They’re an odd bunch, if you ask me. But Mrs. Peyton said that Michaels is due back later this afternoon, so perhaps after we speak with Mrs. Kimball, I can nip back and take his statement.”

Witherspoon’s brows drew together in a frown. “Do you think he’s been deliberately avoiding us?”

“No, I think the poor man’s just been run ragged trying to get all the arrangements for the funeral reception done. According to the housekeeper, the Banfields are very particular when it comes to burying their dead. They actually have a set of funeral dishes they use for all the family funeral receptions. They’ve used them for the last hundred and fifty years and there is a special set of linens as well. All their tablecloths must be edged in black and none of the household will be allowed to smile until Arlette Banfield has been buried.”

“Gracious, now I can understand why Mr. Banfield made such a fuss about draping his house in mourning cloth. He not only lost his wife, he’s now got to go through all this rigmarole to get the poor lady laid to rest,” Witherspoon murmured, his expression sympathetic.

The portly, balding police sergeant leaning on the counter straightened to attention. “Inspector Witherspoon, good day, sir.” He nodded politely to Barnes.

“Good day, Sergeant,” Witherspoon said. “I understand the reports on the violinist and the area search are ready.”

“Yes, sir, they are ready for you.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a brown file folder. He handed it to Witherspoon. “The violinist is a chap named Howard Thomson. He was very cooperative and answered all our questions. He claimed knocking over the music stands was just an accident.”

Witherspoon laid the folder down and flipped it open. He pushed his spectacles up so he could read the report. After a moment, he said, “Did Mr. Thomson have any connection with the Banfield family prior to being hired to play at the ball?” He knew that coincidences did happen, but the timing of this one was very suspect. When Thomson knocked over those music stands, he created a diversion that might have given the killer the opportunity he or she needed.

“Not really, sir. Thomson admitted to meeting Lewis Banfield at the end of last year’s ball when Mr. Banfield stopped to congratulate the musicians. But other than that, he claims he didn’t know any of them personally.”

“How did he get the job?” Barnes asked.

The sergeant blinked in surprise and glanced at the constable. “Through a theatrical agency in the Strand.” He tore his gaze away from the constable and spoke to Witherspoon. “All the musicians were booked as a group. We checked with the agency and they confirmed Thomson’s statement.”

Barnes tried not to smile. He knew exactly what the sergeant was thinking. The fellow was shocked that the constable, as well as the inspector, was asking questions. “That’s what Mrs. Peyton said as well.”

The sergeant gave him a sharp look. “But we didn’t just take the man’s word. Thomson said that he is employed to play at the Gaiety Theatre on Saturday evenings, so I sent a couple of lads over to see what they could find out about him. Seems he’s a bit of a showman and his taking that bow and larkin’ about for the ball guests was very much in character.”

“Excellent work, Sergeant.” Witherspoon beamed in approval and then glanced at the report again. “I see that the search of the neighborhood hasn’t turned up the missing champagne bottle.”

“Sorry, Inspector, the lads did the best they could, but there were dozens and dozens of people there that night and when you add in the neighbors and the onlookers, there was so much confusion, no one could recall seein’ it.”

“We’re aware of that, Sergeant. I’m sure your men made a very thorough job of it.”

“Thank you, sir.” He pointed to the paper in Witherspoon’s hand. “As you can see from the report, none of the neighbors saw or heard anything useful. Mind you, I don’t rightly see how they could have, seeing as it was such a madhouse. Though there was one other death in the neighborhood. Mr. Millhouse, who lives next door to the Banfields, claims that earlier this week, someone poisoned his cat. But his wife told the constable taking the report to pay him no mind; she said the cat was sixteen years old and that it died of old age.” He grinned broadly. “The constable did say Mr. Millhouse took great exception to his wife’s words.”

Witherspoon laughed, folded the report, and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. “Your men have done an excellent job. Please let everyone involved know how much we appreciate their efforts and that all of you will be mentioned in our final report.”

Barnes watched the sergeant’s eyes widen in surprise. The man wasn’t used to hearing words of gratitude from his betters. The constable smiled knowingly and the sergeant grinned back at him as he finally understood why everyone who’d ever worked with Gerald Witherspoon held the man in such high regard.

“Why, thank you, sir,” he said to the inspector. “The men will appreciate hearing that. Is there anything else you’d like us to do?”

“Just keep an eye on the place and watch for anyone suspicious hanging about the area. As a matter of fact, if you can spare the manpower, I’d appreciate it if you could keep two men posted in Wallington Square.”

Mrs. Jeffries tiptoed past the kitchen and quietly slipped up the back stairs. Mrs. Goodge was talking to one of her sources and she didn’t want to disturb them. As she went past the drawing room, she heard Phyllis moving about, so she continued on up to her own room. Opening her door, she stepped inside, went to the window, and drew the green-striped muslin curtain to one side.

She leaned against the window frame and stared out at the street without really seeing anything. Her mind was on the case. One part of her was starting to panic. To date, they’d learned a number of facts, but nothing was coming together in her mind. Absolutely nothing.

Despite their refusal of titles and royal honors, the Banfields were rich, important, and probably as arrogant as the most high-born of aristocrats. Yet oddly enough, according to what the inspector had told her, it wasn’t the Banfield family who’d objected strongly to the marriage, it was Arlette’s family. But that told her nothing. If the Montroses were so opposed to the marriage that they were willing to go to any length to stop it, they’d have murdered Lewis Banfield, not their own daughter.

She straightened her spine. It was too early to worry about finding patterns or theories that fit the few facts they had; she needed to know more. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t going to get all het up at this stage of the investigation. For goodness’ sake, it had only been two days since the woman was murdered. What did she expect? Clairvoyant answers from the beyond, with the name of the killer in limelights? No, just because she’d been wrong and made a mistake in approaching Phyllis, that didn’t mean her perceptual or analytical skills were dead and useless.

They’d solve this case. She had faith in herself and the others. They’d find out more and more bits and pieces and when the time was right, her mind would act of its own accord. When she had enough information, her own inner voice would come up with the answer.

She smiled as the thought came into her mind. She’d used the “inner voice” ploy a number of times on the inspector. She’d worked hard to convince him the hints and nudges she’d planted in his mind were his own idea. But the truth was, all human beings did indeed have an inner voice. Perhaps it was the mind making connections and seeing the patterns in a number of divergent facts or perhaps it was an intuitive leap into the dark that sometimes turned out to be correct, but whatever the cause of the phenomenon, she was now convinced the talent was universal. All one had to do was quiet one’s mind and let it drift off where it would.