Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (23 page)

“Do you think you can ask Fanny which of the two houseguests that were staying with the Banfields last week has a blue jacket and a bonnet with a matching veil?”

“I don’t need to ask Fanny.” She uncrossed her arms. “I know who it was. It was a Mrs. Bickleton.”

“Cor blimey, you’re a clever one. ’Ow do you know that?”

“Because Mrs. Bickleton was getting in a hansom last week when we had our day out together and she was wearing a bright blue jacket with a matching hat and veil. Fanny and I had to duck into a doorway so she wouldn’t see us,” Emma explained.

“Why didn’t you want her to see you?” he asked. But he suspected he already knew the answer.

Emma giggled. “Because there was a young man with us. He’s sweet on Fanny. The minute we come around the corner and Fanny spotted her climbing into the hansom, she made Paul walk on and pushed me into a shop doorway. Fanny said to me, ‘If that Mrs. Bickleton sees me with a boy, she’ll tell Mrs. Banfield the elder and I’ll be in trouble.’ At the time, I thought it was funny. Why do you care about her jacket and veil?” She stared at him curiously.

Wiggins wasn’t sure what to say. He liked Emma and didn’t want to lie to her any more than he had to, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. “Well, um, someone gave us some information and we had to try and find out if our informant was tellin’ us the truth.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’m not tryin’ to avoid your question, but I’m really only an assistant private inquiry agent and I only do what I’m told.”

“I know what you mean.” She smiled sadly. “I spend my life doin’ what I’m told as well.”

Ruth squeezed herself into a tiny space between a potted fern and an oversized curio cabinet in a corner of the Banfield drawing room. She’d picked this spot because it was just off the hall and she hoped to get a bit of fresh air.

She peeked out and looked down the corridor. She could see that the dividers between the second reception room and the dining room had been opened, exactly as they had been the night of the ball. The servants were setting out food on a long buffet table.

Ruth leaned against the wall and sighed. Funeral receptions were never pleasant and this one was no exception. The windows were tightly shut, people were speaking in low, somber tones, and it was obvious that the family had divided into two camps.

Crispin and Elizabeth Montrose were on this end of the huge drawing room while Lewis Banfield and his aunt had taken over the other end. People moved between the two groups paying their respects and speaking to the mourners. It had been like that at the funeral as well. Arlette’s parents had sat on one side of the church while Lewis and his aunt had sat on the other. The pews behind each side were filled with their friends and family; flamboyant artistic types wearing far less mourning colors sat behind the Montroses while those sitting behind the Banfields were uniformly in black. Ruth had dithered for a moment and then sat down several pews behind her friend Elizabeth.

She surveyed the room, looking for a likely source of information. Lady Emma Stafford and Margaret Bickleton were sitting on a love seat next to Geraldine Banfield. Next to them and closest to Lewis was a frail-looking young lady with brown hair and a long, bony face. Ruth suspected that must be Helen. As she watched them, she saw the girl lean over and speak to him, but he made an impatient gesture with his hand and she drew back. Margaret Bickleton, who’d also seen the exchange, frowned at her daughter.

Ruth didn’t think she’d learn much from that quarter. She scanned the faces in the room, looking for a likely candidate, but most people were clustered together in small groups, speaking softly and waiting for the food to be served.

She had to get some air. The room was so stuffy she didn’t think she could draw another breath. A puff of air washed over her as she stepped into the hallway and she realized the side door was open. She went in that direction and as she reached the doorway, she heard voices.

“I’m sorry about it, Mr. Bigglesworth, I don’t know what to tell you,” a woman’s voice said. “But today is hardly the time or the place to pursue the matter.”

Ruth peeked around the corner of the door. She saw the Banfield housekeeper with a burly man dressed in an ill-fitting suit.

“I know it’s not a good time, Mrs. Peyton,” he insisted. “The young missus was always nice to me and I mean no disrespect by bringing this up at her funeral. But that’s a ruddy great hole we’ve got down there and someone’s got to give me leave to speak to the builders and at least get a cost estimate for the repairs.”

Mrs. Peyton closed her eyes and sighed. “But Mrs. Banfield has already done that. Surely you don’t need to bother Mr. Banfield on today of all days.”

“But she didn’t do it,” he replied. “She come to the house but she didn’t examine the hole in the attic. She just asked me for the keys to the outbuildings and then sent me off to fetch the trap and pony so I could take her back to the station. I sent Mr. Banfield a telegram and asked him if I should speak to the builders directly, as she’d left me no instructions, but he never answered me. I’m quite capable of taking care of the matter, Mrs. Peyton, but I can’t keep putting up tarps every time it rains. The wet is getting into the walls.”

“Are you in need of assistance, madam?”

Ruth turned and came face-to-face with the butler. “Oh no, I just needed a breath of air. It’s very warm in there and I thought I’d step outside for a moment but the area in front of the door is occupied and I didn’t wish to interrupt.”

The butler’s expression didn’t change. He looked over her shoulder. “That’s Mrs. Peyton, our housekeeper, and Mr. Bigglesworth, the gardener from the country house. I don’t think they’d have minded being interrupted. You’re a guest.”

By this time, the housekeeper and the gardener were both staring at her. Ruth could feel a flush climb her cheeks. She knew good and well that all of them knew who she was, that she was the woman who’d insisted on calling the police when Arlette died. They probably thought she was deliberately snooping. Well, in one sense she was, but she wasn’t trying to overhear what these two said on purpose. “Servants are entitled to courtesy the same as everyone else, and I didn’t want to barge in when they were having a private conversation.” She inclined her head and continued on toward the open door.

Ruth stepped outside into the narrow passage between the houses. The walkway was paved, so she strolled toward the back of the house, breathing deeply and sucking in as much fresh air as possible before she had to go back inside. As she approached the corner, she heard voices, so she eased her steps, hoping that no one had heard her. She didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping twice within ten minutes. But whoever was talking hadn’t heard her or, if they had, they didn’t care that someone was coming, because they kept on with the conversation.

“I don’t know what to do; I don’t want to run tellin’ tales to Mrs. Banfield, but I think I ought to say something.” The voice belonged to a young girl.

“Keep out of it,” a male voice admonished. “She’ll not thank you for it. No one wants to know one of their friends has been snooping through their things. Besides, you don’t owe the old cow anything. She’s never been very nice to you; she wouldn’t even let me help you with that ruddy great trunk of hers.”

“I don’t like her, either, but I might not have been the only one that spotted Mrs. Bickleton goin’ up to the attic—”

“And you shouldn’t ’ave followed her up there,” he interrupted. “That’s why you’d best keep your mouth shut about it. If anyone saw you comin’ out of the attic, they could just as likely run tellin’ tales that you was the one putting your nose where it didn’t belong. If it comes down to it, it’ll be your word against one of her friends, and which side do you think she’s likely to take? Besides, you told me that all the Bickleton woman was doin’ was taking a look at that old book of newspaper cuttings. You said you saw her leavin’ the attic and she didn’t have anything with her, so she weren’t stealin. She was just bein’ nosy.”

“But why was she so interested? That’s what I want to know,” the girl insisted. “You know there’s been murder done in this house.”

“But you brought that ruddy trunk down two weeks before Mrs. Banfield the younger were killed. It’s got naught to do with anything.”

“Was it that long before the ball? How do you remember everything like that?” she asked. “Oh, bother, we’d better get back inside, here comes Lydia.”

“I remember because it were the same day that Mrs. Banfield the younger and her mother had that awful argument . . .” Their voices faded away as they went into the house.

Ruth stood there for a moment and then turned and went back to the house.

 

“That’s a lie.” Rosalind leapt to her feet. “I didn’t threaten her.”

“What exactly did you say?” Witherspoon asked. “Our witness was very certain of what she heard.”

“I can’t remember my exact words, but I most certainly didn’t threaten to kill the woman,” she cried. She began to pace back and forth in front of the settee. “I’ll admit I was furious with Mrs. Banfield—her interference had caused me a great deal of aggravation and grief—but people of our class don’t solve their problems by violence.” She stopped in front of the inspector and stared him straight in the eye. “We use solicitors.”

Witherspoon held her gaze, and she was the first to look away. She continued pacing. “It’s absurd even to ask me such a question,” she muttered.

“I don’t think it’s absurd, Mrs. Kimball. Isn’t the bank going to foreclose?” Barnes said softly. “Isn’t that the reason you went to Lewis Banfield in the first place? Because you were desperate and terrified of losing the one thing you had left, your home?” He was guessing; he’d no idea if the Kimballs had an outstanding loan or not.

“We won’t lose it now. She’s dead and Geraldine will convince Lewis to lend us the money.” She stopped and clamped her mouth shut. Her hands clenched into fists and she closed her eyes briefly. “That didn’t come out the way it should have. I’m very sorry that Arlette Banfield was murdered but I had nothing to do with it.”

“Yet now that she’s gone, you’re sure that your friend can get the victim’s husband to make you a private loan?” The inspector stared at her skeptically. He had a feeling that Rosalind Kimball was in for a surprise.

“But of course. Our families have been friends for years.”

“Why didn’t you go to Mrs. Banfield’s funeral service?” the constable asked.

“I’m not a hypocrite, Constable,” she replied. “As you know, the late Mrs. Banfield and I weren’t friends.”

“But you’re going to ask her husband for a loan,” Witherspoon reminded her. “And by all accounts, he loved his wife dearly. Do you think he’ll forgive a slight like that?” He’d no idea what he was trying to find out by this line of questioning, but she’d already revealed animosity toward the victim and he wanted to see how deep her hatred went.

For a moment, she looked uncertain, then she straightened her spine. “He’ll understand and his aunt will intervene on my behalf.”

“You stayed as a houseguest in Mrs. Banfield’s home; I should think it would only be polite to have gone to her service,” Barnes pointed out. He didn’t believe for one minute that she’d stayed away from the funeral of her own volition. She was looking to Lewis Banfield to save her home. She wouldn’t risk offending him.

She glared at the constable. “Whether I went or not is none of your concern,” she snapped.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite true, Mrs. Kimball,” the inspector said. “You threaten the victim only days before she’s murdered, then you continue to stay in her home, accepting her hospitality—”

“It wasn’t her house,” she interrupted. “It belongs to the Banfield family and she was just an interloper. But if you must know, I didn’t go to the funeral because Elizabeth Montrose told me I’d better not. She was here yesterday afternoon and she told me if I dared show my face at the church, she’d make a scene that would haunt me for the rest of my days.” She broke off and sank to the settee. She shrank into herself, crossing her arms over her chest and holding her elbows with her hands as her shoulders slumped forward. “It was awful, Inspector,” she continued, her voice ragged with pain. “Truly awful. No one has ever spoken to me like that before.”

Witherspoon felt a surge of pity for her. “Yes, I’m sure it must have been,” he said quietly.

“She made it perfectly clear she knew what had happened that day at Gillette’s and she also made it clear that Arlette had told her about . . . about . . . my husband’s habits.” Her voice caught and she took a long, deep breath. “And that now that her beloved daughter was dead, she didn’t care what anyone in London or for that matter all of England thought or said about propriety, she’d tell everyone about Gregory, about what he’s done to our family and our good name.”

“Perhaps it was only Mrs. Montrose’s grief speaking,” the inspector suggested. “Surely she knows that you’re not responsible . . .”