Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (31 page)

“That’s almost two weeks before the ball,” Betsy murmured thoughtfully. “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the murder; maybe she just had to go to the Banfield country house. It’s near Aylesbury, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Mrs. Goodge answered. “Remember, my old colleague Charlotte Temple told me about overhearin’ Lady Stafford goin’ on about how when they were girls, she and Geraldine Banfield had slipped out of the house and gone to watch that murder trial at Aylesbury.”

Mrs. Jeffries snapped to attention as one of the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

“She mentioned Aylesbury to me as well,” Ruth added. “Lady Stafford dropped it into the conversation when I was giving her a ride home from the funeral reception. I found out something as well. I mentioned to you that I was going to Caroline Clenninger’s for supper. Of course, much like Luty’s dinner party, everyone was talking about the murder.”

“So what did your friend Caroline have to say?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Caroline had nothing to say, but Rebecca Abbot did. Rebecca’s brother does business with Lewis Banfield and they see the family socially. About a fortnight ago, Rebecca and Thomas were invited to dine with the Banfields and they were having sherry in the drawing room before dinner. Arlette Banfield had come home late and had gone upstairs to change clothes.”

“Was Geraldine Banfield present?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. A different picture was starting to take shape in her mind, one that used the same information they had thus far but came up with a very different image.

Ruth nodded. “And she was visibly annoyed that Arlette was late. But Lewis wasn’t in the least upset. He laughed when she stuck her head into the drawing room and apologized to the guests for her tardiness and told her husband that she’d had a very successful day. As soon as she disappeared, Lewis made some comment about how proud he was that his wife was almost as good a businesswoman as he was a businessman and that if he weren’t already married to her, he’d hire her to work for him.” She paused. “According to Rebecca, that’s when the evening got interesting because Geraldine Banfield made some snide comment about how it wasn’t fitting for a woman to indulge in such behavior and Lewis shouldn’t encourage her wild plans. He laughed again and told his aunt not to be so old-fashioned. He said that Arlette had negotiated a very shrewd deal and that he was delighted she was a modern woman.”

“Was this the mass-produced version of her statue that they were talkin’ about?” Wiggins asked curiously.

“That’s right. But after Lewis made his comment, Geraldine said nothing and, a few moments later, Arlette came down and they went into the dining room. During dinner, the conversation turned to business and Lewis asked Arlette what kind of terms she’d arranged with the manufacturer. At this point, Geraldine Banfield cut into the conversation and said she hoped Arlette’s mother could talk some sense into her because she thought the whole idea was dishonorable and disgusting. She leapt up and stormed out of the room.”

“Cor blimey, I’ll bet that stopped the conversation,” Wiggins muttered.

“I’m sure it did,” Hatchet agreed.

“What happened then?” Betsy asked eagerly. “Did Arlette hold her ground or did she jump up and go after her?”

“She held her ground,” Ruth confirmed. “Rebecca said that both Arlette and Lewis apologized on behalf of Geraldine and they changed the subject. The remainder of the dinner was very pleasant. Arlette and Rebecca went into the drawing room while the men had their port. Rebecca made some comment about seeing Elizabeth Montrose’s work at Gillette’s and Arlette confided in her that it wasn’t just Geraldine that was upset because she was letting the statue be reproduced; her mother was even more furious. But for entirely different reasons.” She broke off and took a quick sip from her cup. “She wasn’t looking forward to her mother’s visit the next day.”

“So do you think this dinner party was the night before Arlette had the horrid row with her mother?” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. Even as she asked the question, she was deep in thought, trying to fit all the pieces together into a pattern that worked. Almost, almost, she could see how it must have happened, but what she didn’t understand was the
why
of it.

“I think so,” Ruth replied. “But Rebecca didn’t say it specifically, and, frankly, I didn’t think to ask her about dates. All she said was it was
about
a fortnight ago.”

Mrs. Goodge gave her an admiring glance. “You heard an earful, didn’t you?”

Ruth laughed. “I got very lucky. But I’m not finished.”

“Nellie’s whiskers! You’re tryin’ to outdo me—and Hatchet’s the only one who is allowed to do that,” Luty exclaimed good-naturedly.

“Don’t keep us waitin’, then, what else did you find out?” Smythe asked eagerly.

“It wasn’t much,” Ruth said modestly. “Only that Grace Alperton was at Caroline’s dinner party, too, and she mentioned that she’d run into Helen Bickleton in Liberty’s on the fifteenth—Grace remembered the date because that’s when she gets her quarterly funds from the bank. But I digress. Helen said that Margaret had been thrilled to be invited to stay at the Banfields’ as a houseguest. She claimed her mother had been angling for an invitation for weeks and had almost given up hope but right before Helen left the house to go shopping that morning, a messenger had arrived with an invitation. Grace, of course, said she’d never accept an invitation on such short notice.”

“That can’t be right.” Betsy frowned and looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Margaret Bickleton told the inspector she’d gone for morning coffee with Geraldine Banfield to discuss what clothes she should bring when she came to stay, remember? And that was the day they overheard the argument between Arlette and her mother. That’s supposedly the reason Geraldine hurried her out of the house.”

“Do we know what day they had a row?” Mrs. Goodge asked in confusion. “I can’t keep track of it all.”

“It’s confusing to me, too,” Phyllis said quietly. She gave the cook a shy smile.

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t, either, but she sensed that Betsy was right. She started to ask another question, but Hatchet spoke up. “Didn’t you tell us just a few minutes ago that Crispin Montrose said that Arlette thought both the houseguests had been invited out of spite?” he asked her.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded slowly as she recalled Witherspoon’s account of the meeting with Arlette’s father. For a moment, she stared past them toward the window over the sink. Finally, she said. “Yes, but I don’t think spite was the only reason she wanted houseguests.” Her voice trailed off as the picture changed and grew, emerging into crystal clarity as the events unfolded in the same sequence, but with an entirely different killer. In her mind’s eye, she saw a figure reaching for a blue champagne flute, saw a pair of gloved hands pull out the stopper of a minuscule brown bottle and pour six or seven tiny grains into the bottom of the flute. A flute that the killer knew would only be used by one person.

She knew she was right, but there was so little evidence. “She was very clever,” she mumbled. “She’s going to get away with it. There’s not enough real evidence to convict her of murder. She didn’t make the same mistake that John Talwell made. That’s why she wanted to reread those newspaper clippings. That’s why she wanted the house filled with people who hated Arlette.”

“If you don’t think Margaret Bickleton is the killer, then we’d better do something quickly,” Mrs. Goodge said bluntly. “The inspector is goin’ to be arrestin’ her this morning.”

“But I’m not sure we can do anything about it,” Mrs. Jeffries cried. She broke off and forced herself to think. “There has to be a way, there simply has to be a way. If only I could get him to see it the way I see it.”

“See what?” Wiggins cried. He looked at the others. Everyone was staring at Mrs. Jeffries, their expressions hopeful and eager. Even Samson, perched on his stool by the pine sideboard, had stopped licking his back paw and turned his big head toward the housekeeper.

“How it was done and, more importantly, who did it,” she murmured. She was trying to come up with a method that might work, her mind assessing and discarding various ideas and schemes. But nothing seemed right. She slumped back against her chair. “We’d have to come up with a way to trick her, and I fear she’s too clever for that. She’ll not slip up unless . . . unless . . . oh, that won’t do.”

“What won’t do?” Luty demanded. “Nell’s bells, we’ll figure it out. We ain’t goin’ to let the killer walk and we ain’t goin’ to sit back and let an innocent woman git arrested, even one as mean and cranky as Margaret Bickleton. Now, tell us what you’re thinkin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “It’s very risky and it could easily fail.”

“Life is filled with risk and failure, but that shouldn’t stop us from doing what is right,” Mrs. Goodge declared.

“Yes, of course. But we’d need a sample of Chief Inspector Barrow’s handwriting and I’m not sure we’ve got one . . .”

“Yes, we do.” Betsy sprang up. “It’s in the inspector’s study. Remember, he sent him that nice note last February when the inspector was ill with influenza.” She charged for the back stairs. “I know exactly where it’s at. I’ll get it.”

“Bring down his ink pot and pen,” she called. “And some blank notepaper.”

“I’ll bring it all,” Betsy yelled as she charged up the stairs.

“Right, now, what else do ya need?” Luty pressed.

“Let me think for a moment.” Mrs. Jeffries drummed her fingers against the tabletop as the plan she’d come up with fell into place. “Yes, that should do it. We’ll have to make her think the police have a witness,” she muttered more to herself than the others. She nodded briskly. “Right, then, this is going to be the difficult part. I’ll need to forge the chief inspector’s handwriting and that’s going to be very difficult.”

“Let me do it.”

Surprised, everyone turned and stared at Phyllis.

Mrs. Jeffries finally found her voice. “You?”

“I’m an excellent forger, Mrs. Jeffries,” she explained earnestly. “I’ve had ever so much practice. My old mistress used to make me forge letters to her husband’s bank manager.”

They heard Betsy running down the back stairs.

“Slow down,” Smythe cried anxiously. He shoved his chair back and started to get up but sat back down when she gentled her pace to a sedate walk. “That woman is goin’ to give me even more gray hairs,” he muttered.

Betsy smiled sweetly at her husband as she came into the kitchen. She was carrying the long, rectangular basket Mrs. Jeffries kept by the back staircase to hold old copies of the inspector’s
Illustrated London News
. After he read them, he left them there for the rest of the household. “I’ve brought some plain notepaper, envelopes, and the inspector’s fountain pen and ink pot.” She put her burden on the table in front of the housekeeper. “And the letter from the chief inspector is right on top.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose, grabbed the receptacle, and raced for the end of the table. She put the basket down, grabbed the letter, and handed it to Phyllis. Everyone else got up and hurried to crowd around the maid. Phyllis pulled the letter out and opened it.

“What’s going on?” Betsy asked as she trailed after her husband.

“Phyllis is a forger,” Wiggins replied cheerfully.

“It isn’t her fault she’s a forger,” the cook explained as she moved into the vacant spot next to Mrs. Jeffries. “It was her old mistress making her forge letters to the bank manager.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll explain later, love.” Smythe drew his wife next to him.

“Can you do it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked anxiously.

Phyllis studied the letter for a moment more and then smiled. “Oh yes, this will be very easy to copy. But you’ll have to tell me what to write.”

“And you’d best be quick about it,” Mrs. Goodge warned. She looked at the carriage clock on the sideboard. “Otherwise, the wrong woman will be arrested.”

 

The traffic was awful and it was almost eleven o’clock when the hansom pulled up in front of the Banfield house. “I’m not happy about this, either,” Witherspoon said as he stepped down. “But the chief inspector is right: the evidence does point to Margaret Bickleton.”

Barnes paid the driver. “I know you’re not, sir, and, well, I’ve explained my position on the matter. We’re only arresting her because the poison was found in her room.” He nodded to the constables standing by the front gate. They’d sent a message to the local station, and additional men had been posted by the back door as well.

“That’s not the only reason,” Witherspoon interrupted. “There is plenty of additional evidence. And I’ll not have you blaming yourself because the search was terminated before that room was properly explored. I was the one who made that decision, not you, and frankly, Constable, I think I’d make the same decision again in those circumstances.”

“I still feel bad, sir.” Barnes smiled grimly. “I was hoping that gossip I picked up from the Banfield servants might have some bearing on the case, but I guess it was just that, silly rumors of one sort or another.” On the drive over, he’d tried to pass along everything he’d heard from Mrs. Jeffries. He’d pretended it was just talk he’d picked up casually but hadn’t included in his reports because the information hadn’t been gained in formal interviews. “But at least the chief inspector can get Whitehall off his back.” They started for the house. “Do you really think the evidence we’ve got will hold up in the dock, sir?”