Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (4 page)

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Witherspoon replied. “And I assure you, sir, if your wife was indeed murdered, we’ll do everything in our power to find the culprit. You have my word on that.”

An older man with an enormous mustache came over and draped his arm over Lewis’ shoulder. “Come away, Lewis, and we’ll let the police do their job.” He glanced at the two policemen. “I’m Sir Ralph Fetchman. I’m sure you’ve a number of questions for those of us who were at the table when . . . when it happened. But there’s no reason for us to stay in here, is there? We’ll be in Lewis’ study.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll be there in a few moments to take your statements.”

When the last of the group had left the ballroom, Witherspoon said to Constable Griffiths, “Constable, except for household members and the people sitting with the victim, everyone else can leave. Just ensure that we have everyone’s name and address. You’ll probably need to get some other lads to help with that chore, and if anyone refuses to cooperate, come and get Constable Barnes.”

In his experience a murder like this one appeared to be wasn’t a random occurrence but was almost always committed by someone close to the victim. As long as he could speak with everyone connected to the Banfield household, there was no point in keeping the guests here any longer.

He turned his attention to the doctor. “I would appreciate it if you would stay until the police surgeon arrives. As you are a physician, he might have some questions for you.”

“Actually, I am the police surgeon for this district,” he replied. “I hope that isn’t awkward. After all, I could well be a suspect. I was here as a guest this evening.”

“Did you know Mrs. Banfield?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve never met the lady. I was invited here tonight because my great-uncle is one of Mr. Lewis Banfield’s business associates.”

“Then I see no reason why you shouldn’t continue as the police surgeon.”

“What about me, Gerald?” Ruth tugged at his sleeve. “I was sitting at the table when she was poisoned. Won’t you need to take my statement as well? I don’t want any special treatment because we’re . . . er . . . friends.”

Witherspoon smiled gratefully, touched that she was trying to make his task easier. But then again, that was one of the reasons she was so special to him. “If you could wait out on the terrace, I’ll come and take your statement as soon as we’ve finished here.”

Ruth nodded and hurried off toward the open doors.

Witherspoon stepped around the table and looked down to where the victim lay. He was very squeamish about corpses, but more than anything else, this one made him sad. She was so very young to have died.

Arlette Banfield was on her back, eyes open, mouth gaping slightly, and hands lying neatly at her sides. The inspector knelt beside her. He studied her for a moment. “Where was she sitting?” he asked.

“In this chair here.” The doctor pointed to a chair a few feet away. “It got knocked away from the table when we put her on the floor.”

“Was she sitting at this table?” Barnes pointed to the one nearest the body. The pure white of the cloth was marred by a huge stain were a decanter of red wine had overturned. Two crystal glasses had smashed into the ornate centerpiece and shards of glass now glistened atop the lily petals. A blue champagne flute was lying on its side next to a crumpled serviette.

“Yes, I believe so,” the doctor replied. He glanced at Witherspoon. “Your friend Lady Cannonberry wouldn’t let them clear this table. She didn’t want any evidence destroyed and I must say, I agreed with her.”

Witherspoon nodded and kept his gaze on the body. “Are you certain she was poisoned?”

“She was greeting guests in the foyer when I arrived this evening and there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with her then. Healthy young women don’t generally die for no apparent reason, Inspector. As far as I could tell, she didn’t have a heart attack or stroke. The symptoms I observed are consistent with poisoning,” he explained. “But I’ll be able to tell you more after the postmortem.”

“Could it have been accidental?” Barnes asked.

“It’s unlikely.” Pendleton shook his head. “We’re in a formal ballroom, and I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have prussic acid or cyanide here when there’s a houseful of people.”

“Did you witness her actual death?” Witherspoon asked.

The doctor pointed to a table on the far side of the room. “I was sitting over there, so I didn’t have a completely unobstructed view, and frankly, I’d not been paying any attention to Mrs. Banfield until after they began shouting for a doctor. I was chatting with the others at my table. By the time I got here, Mrs. Banfield was already having convulsions and she couldn’t breathe. Seconds after I got to her, her heart stopped. I tried reviving her but it didn’t work.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Witherspoon said. “If you could supervise the removal of the body, I would be most grateful. The mortuary van should be here shortly.” He turned to Barnes. “Get someone to take all the items off the table into evidence and then we’ll interview witnesses.”

Barnes waved a constable over and relayed the message. Then he said to Witherspoon, “Did you want to have a word with Lady Cannonberry now?” Barnes knew her observations and information would be valuable, but he couldn’t say as such to the inspector.

Ruth Cannonberry was one of the Witherspoon household’s special friends, in that she helped them when the inspector had a murder. Barnes had worked with the inspector ever since they’d solved those horrible Kensington High Street murders when Witherspoon was still in charge of the Records Room. Over the years, he’d realized the inspector had a good deal of assistance on his cases and it hadn’t taken him long to realize that the inspector’s servants, under the lead of the housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, were the ones doing the helping. They were out in the streets finding clues, following leads, and collecting the sort of gossip a copper couldn’t get close to in a million years. But the inspector’s staff went to great pains to keep Witherspoon in the dark about their activities. For the longest time, Barnes had pretended he didn’t know what they were up to, but eventually he’d let Mrs. Jeffries know he knew what they were up to and that he approved.

The constable was no fool. Witherspoon’s remarkable success as a homicide detective had made the man a legend in the department, and much of that glory had spilled the constable’s way. But more important, he felt he’d done more for the cause of justice in these last years with the inspector than in all his previous years on the force put together. That meant more to him than anything. He’d admit to a bit of vanity, but it was justice that was really important. So he kept their secret and aided them when he could.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll have Constable Griffiths take her formal statement so there’s no hint of impropriety in the investigation. But there’s no reason I shouldn’t have a word with her as well.”

 

Not wanting to wake Phyllis, Mrs. Jeffries warned everyone to keep their voices down. They were huddled around the kitchen table. Mrs. Goodge, the white-haired, portly cook, had made tea, and Betsy, the blond-haired maid, and her husband, Smythe, the coachman, had arrived from their flat, which was less than a quarter of a mile away.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at Smythe. “How fast can you get to St. John’s Wood?”

He was a tall, powerfully built man with dark brown hair, harsh features, and a ready smile softened by the kindness in his brown eyes. “If we can get a hansom, it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. This time of night the traffic isn’t bad. But we’d best get goin’.”

“Drink your tea; it might be summer but it can get nippy out there.” Betsy patted his arm. She was as protective of her husband as he was of her. They had been married since Christmas. Theirs had been a long and rather awkward courtship. He was fifteen years older than her, and their marriage had been put off twice by circumstances beyond their control. “And you don’t know how long you’ll be out.”

Smythe laughed and picked up his mug. He drained it in one long gulp. “Come along, Wiggins.” He pushed back from the table and stood up. “Let’s see if we can find out anything useful. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” He bent over and gave Betsy a light kiss on the cheek.

Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, got to his feet as the two men headed for the back hall. He wagged his tail hopefully. “Sorry, boy.” The footman paused to stroke the animal’s head. “We’ll go walkies when I get back. You stay here and guard the ladies.”

Betsy snorted delicately. “Guard us, indeed! We can take care of ourselves.”

The men laughed and disappeared down the hallway.

“But Fred has come in handy a time or two,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out.

“True,” Betsy agreed. “But it galls me that the men get to go off and have all the fun while we’re stuck here twiddling our thumbs.”

“We’re not twiddling our thumbs,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “We’re coming up with ideas and strategies to solve this case. The first thing we must decide is what we’re going to do about Phyllis.”

Betsy tapped her finger against her chin. “Well, we’ve become fairly good friends and she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s quite smart.”

Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries exchanged amused glances. When Phyllis had first come to the household, Betsy hadn’t been very nice to the poor girl.

Betsy was now a lovely matron in her twenties, but she had arrived at the Witherspoon household by collapsing on the inspector’s doorstep when she was just a lass. He’d insisted they nurse the girl back to health and, even though she was completely untrained and had no references, when she’d recovered he’d offered her a position as a housemaid. Betsy would do anything for the inspector. He’d saved her from living on the streets. When she’d first married Smythe and they’d moved into their own flat, she’d felt that she was being pushed out and had taken her misery out on poor Phyllis. But since she’d come to her senses, the two young women had become fast friends.

“So you think we should tell her what we’re doing?” Mrs. Jeffries commented.

“Yes, she can help,” Betsy said. “Mind you, she’s a bit of a nervous Nell; she’s always worrying about losing her position. But she’s ever such a sweet girl. It isn’t right to keep her out of everything.”

“I agree,” the cook added.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She knew they didn’t really have any other option. “But you do understand that once we bring her ‘on board,’ so to speak, we’ll have to make sure she knows that our work is a secret. Oh dear, I’m not explaining this very well. It’s just that with Luty and Hatchet helping and Lady Cannonberry as well as Dr. Bosworth, well, it seems as if half of London knows our little secret.”

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, had been witnesses in the inspector’s second case. Luty had figured out what the household was up to and had come to them when she needed help. Ever since, the two of them had insisted on helping. Dr. Bosworth was a physician who worked at St. Thomas’ Hospital and he assisted them as well. He had some very advanced ideas about what one could learn by studying the corpse and the scene of a murder. To date, only a few of his colleagues and the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens appreciated his theories.

“I know what you’re sayin’,” the cook agreed with a sigh. “But Betsy’s right, it wouldn’t be right to keep her out of it. Besides, we don’t know that she’ll want to help. She might want to stay out of it. Not everyone wants to dash about asking questions and hunting clues.”

The cook got all of her information without ever leaving the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge had spent a lifetime working in some of the finest and most aristocratic households in the country. She had a vast network of former colleagues she could call upon to find out what she needed to know. Luckily, most of her old acquaintances were more than willing to come around for a long natter over a cup of tea and plate of sweets. If she couldn’t find anything useful from her old friends, she had another source to tap.

Everyone who set foot in her kitchen was fair game. Mrs. Goodge believed that everyone had ears and heard things. Delivery boys, rag and bone men, street vendors, the butcher’s lad, tinkers—all of them were fed tea and treats as she ruthlessly pumped them for bits and pieces about victims and suspects. Sometimes she was amazed by how much she learned. But then again, a lifetime in service had shown her that most of the upper classes didn’t consider servants to be people, so they rarely guarded their tongues in their hearing.

That, of course, was of great value to her and the others who pursued justice.

“I suppose you’re both right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We’ll tell her tomorrow before Luty and Hatchet get here. Let’s just hope that Smythe and Wiggins are able to get us a few bits of information.”

“They will.” Betsy patted her rounded belly. “And then we can get out and about. I can’t wait! It’s been ages since we’ve had a case.”