Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (8 page)

Barnes stifled a yawn as he trudged down the hallway. The Banfield household was now eerily quiet and he hoped they could call it a night. He tucked the sheaf of statements and reports under his arm and stepped into the foyer. Witherspoon was sitting on the bottom of the staircase; his eyes were closed, his tie loosened, tufts of his hair stood straight up, and his spectacles had slid to the end of his nose.

The constable cleared his throat and the inspector’s eyes flew open. When he spotted the constable, he grabbed the banister spindle and hoisted himself up. “Oh dear, you’ve caught me. I know one oughtn’t sit down on the job, so to speak, but I had to have a rest. It feels as if I’ve been on my feet for days. I imagine you’re just as tired as I am.”

“That I am, sir,” he admitted. “But I was able to sit down while I interviewed Mrs. Geraldine Banfield and, truth to tell, I had a bit of a breather while the constables did another search of the terrace and ballroom. Speaking of the lads, they were a bit worried.” He handed the stack of statements to Witherspoon.

“Worried?” He shoved his glasses back into place, folded the documents in half, and stuffed them into the long inner pocket of his jacket. “Gracious, what about?”

“Well, sir, they heard you earlier this evening when you were in the butler’s pantry. Some of them were concerned you raised your voice because you thought they’d been derelict in their duty,” Barnes replied. Despite what he’d told Constable Long, he knew that the inspector wouldn’t lose his temper because he was “tired.” He was concerned himself and this was a good excuse for finding out what was wrong. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the inspector had lost control of himself. “They wanted me to assure you that they’d followed both established procedures and your ‘methods’ in gathering statements and evidence and searching the house.”

“Of course I don’t think anything of the sort. They all appeared to be doing their jobs quite admirably, especially under what was less than ideal circumstances,” he replied. “Why on earth are they so concerned? Except for tonight, none of them are under my command. With the exception of Constable Griffiths, they’re all from the local precinct.”

“They know you by reputation.” Barnes smiled wanly. “And I imagine they were rather hoping to impress you or, at the very least, ensure you didn’t think ill of them. I don’t think you understand just how much the rank-and-file lads respect you, sir.” He was speaking the truth.

The inspector wasn’t just famous on the force because he’d solved so many murders, he was greatly admired because he had a habit of giving credit where credit was due. Unlike many high-ranking officers, when Witherspoon wrote his reports, he included the name of every constable who’d contributed to the solution of the crime. If the constables were from another district, as was often the case, he took extra care to make sure their superiors were aware of how much the men had contributed. If someone had done something outstanding or if they’d put themselves in harm’s way, Witherspoon would put their names in for a commendation.

“Oh dear, please tell everyone that my lack of civility had nothing to do with any of them. Generally, I’ve far more self-discipline than I exhibited this evening.”

Barnes crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him steadily. “What’s wrong, sir? We’ve worked many a late night and I’ve never heard you start shoutin’ like you did.”

Witherspoon said nothing for a moment and then sighed heavily. “I’m worried. Really, really worried.”

“About what, sir? The case has just started and I know the powers that be expect you to solve it quickly; they always do. But even the Home Secretary himself knows he’s got to give you time to investigate properly.”

“That’s not why.” The inspector shook his head. “Don’t you see, Constable, I don’t know what to do about Lady Cannonberry.”

“Constable Griffiths took her statement, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “You followed proper procedure.”

“That’s not the point. Lady Cannonberry was sitting right next to Arlette Banfield when she was poisoned. That makes her a suspect,” Witherspoon cried. “Yet we’ve a close relationship.” He blushed and looked away. “And I’m wondering if the honorable thing to do would be to excuse myself from this case.”

“You can’t possibly think she had anything to do with the murder.” Barnes couldn’t believe his ears.

“Of course I don’t, but I’m going to have to treat her as I do any other suspect and I don’t think I’m capable of behaving in such a manner. She’s very dear to me and I can’t bear the thought of questioning her as if she were a criminal.” He looked down at the floor.

“You won’t have to, sir,” Barnes said dryly. “To begin with, you’re always respectful of everyone when you’re taking statements and asking questions. The only time you speak harshly to anyone is if they refuse to cooperate or they try to bully one of your men. Secondly, sir, unless we find evidence that Lady Cannonberry had a motive to want Arlette Banfield dead, all we’ll have to do is ask her the same questions we ask everyone else. If you let me handle all the interviews with her, that should avoid any hint of impropriety or favoritism.”

Witherspoon looked up, his expression hopeful. “Do you think so, Constable? I should hate to hurt her in any way.”

“Just let me take care of it, sir. Besides, I’m sure we’ll find that Lady Cannonberry was the one person at the Banfield table who didn’t want the poor woman dead.”

“That’s an excellent solution, Constable.” Witherspoon smiled. “I should have thought of it myself, but, frankly, from the moment I saw her here and heard what had happened, I’ve not been able to think clearly.”

“None of us are at our best at this time of night, sir.” Barnes yawned. “It’s now almost one a.m.”

“Let’s call it a night, shall we? We can continue taking statements tomorrow morning. “Make sure there are two constables posted out front and we’ll ask the local lads to double their patrols in the area. I think I’ll have one more look at the crime scene before I leave.”

Barnes nodded and hurried off to relay the instructions to the local constables. The inspector yawned and went back to the ballroom. He paused just inside the huge double doors.

The cavernous room had an air of despair about it. The food from the buffet had been cleared away, but the servants hadn’t had time to clean the room properly. There were still tablecloths on the tables; crystal wineglasses, many of them still holding drink, were everywhere; and the white carnations in the centerpieces were wilting.

The inspector went toward the table where Arlette Banfield had sat and tried to envision what it would have looked like before she drank the fatal potion. According to what he’d been told, Lewis Banfield had sat with his back to the butler’s pantry entrance and Arlette had sat directly across from him. He made a mental note to find out where everyone else had been sitting. Perhaps he’d ask Ruth to draw him a diagram.

Witherspoon studied the room for a few more minutes, trying to get a sense of where everyone was and if they could see one another clearly or how they might have been moving about. But it was no use. Staring at the empty room didn’t help him one bit.

Back at Upper Edmonton Gardens, the only person awake was Mrs. Jeffries. Wiggins and Smythe had come back and reported what little they’d found out, and, after they’d discussed it thoroughly, Smythe and Betsy had escorted Ruth to her house across the communal garden before going home themselves.

Mrs. Jeffries sat at the kitchen table with a covered tray in front of her. She hoped the inspector would get here soon; even with the three cups of tea she’d drunk, she was getting very sleepy. But she was determined to have something for the others tomorrow morning. They’d be here for their breakfast meeting and by then, if she was very lucky, she’d have a bit more information.

She heard the telltale jingle of a harness as a hansom rounded the corner and then the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves as it drew up in front of the house. She grabbed the tray and flew up the back steps and down the hall, stopping just long enough to deposit the tray in the drawing room. She reached the entryway just as the inspector unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

“Good gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, you shouldn’t have waited up for me. It’s dreadfully late.” He hung his bowler hat on the coat tree.

“I don’t need as much sleep as I used to require, sir,” she said cheerfully. “And I thought you could do with a hot mug of tea and a snack before you retired. I know it is very late, sir, but sometimes a few minutes relaxing helps one get to rest easier.” She held her breath, hoping he had enough strength left to spare her a few moments before going upstairs.

“That is very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Jeffries. Shall I come down to the kitchen?”

“I thought you’d be more comfortable in the drawing room,” she replied. “I’ve brought up a tray.”

“Excellent.” He took off down the hallway and she was right on his heels.

He sat down in his favorite chair.

“Lady Cannonberry very kindly stopped in and told us some of what happened, sir,” she said.

“We’re lucky she was there and had the presence of mind to insist they leave things alone. We’ve got the glass the victim was drinking out of tonight. Between Ruth and Dr. Pendleton, they kept most of the evidence from being cleared away.” He settled back further in the chair and yawned.

“Was it awful, sir?” She put the tray cover to one side, poured him some tea, and placed a bun on a plate. She was one of the few people who knew how squeamish he was about bodies. She handed him his food.

He leaned forward, put the tea on the side table, and held the plate on his lap. “This is wonderful,” he murmured as he stuffed a bite of food into his mouth.

She waited patiently while he chewed.

“It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen,” he replied. “Mrs. Banfield was poisoned, so there wasn’t an excess of blood. Poor woman, what a terrible way to die; but then again, I suppose the only good way to pass on is in one’s bed at a very advanced age. Her name was Arlette Banfield and she was a young woman in the prime of her life.”

“Yes, Lady Cannonberry gave us a few details,” she admitted. She wasn’t sure how much to reveal. “She said the doctor who happened to be there was a police surgeon.”

“That’s correct.” He nodded. “But he was at the Banfield house as a guest.” He continued on, giving her the details of his evening.

She listened carefully, not asking questions but simply listening. When he paused to take a sip from his cup, she said, “Was the doctor absolutely sure she’d been poisoned?”

“Well, one can’t be one hundred percent certain until the postmortem is finished.” Witherspoon reached for another bun. “But he was fairly sure of it. He told one of the first constables on the scene there was a harsh, chemical smell on Mrs. Banfield’s breath. That almost always indicates poison.” He popped the last of the bun into his mouth.

“Was he able to identify the poison?”

Witherspoon shook his head as he swallowed. “He suspects cyanide but he wants to do the postmortem to be certain.”

“Who else lives in the Banfield household?” She already knew, of course, but she didn’t want him to think that Ruth had told them too much.

“Aside from the victim’s husband, there’s only his aunt, Geraldine Banfield, who is a permanent resident of the household. But there have been two houseguests staying for the past week, a Mrs. Bickleton and a Mrs. Kimball.”

“Two houseguests?” she repeated. Ruth had only mentioned Margaret Bickleton. Perhaps she didn’t know about the second guest.

“Yes, but I didn’t have time to interview them.” He sighed. “It got so late that people sort of drifted off. But I don’t think I’ll have any problem speaking to either of these ladies; even if they’ve left the Banfield house, we’ve got their addresses.” He put his cup down and rose to his feet.

She stood up. “I’ll lock up, sir. You must get your rest. Shall I let you sleep a bit later than usual in the morning? It is very late.”

He shook his head and stretched as he moved toward the hallway. “No, get me up at my usual time. We’ve much to do tomorrow and Constable Barnes will be here to fetch me just after breakfast.”

 

A mug of steaming hot tea was sitting at his spot at the table when Constable Barnes came into the kitchen behind Mrs. Jeffries.

“We thought you’d like something to drink before you and the inspector got about your business,” the cook said.

When they were on a murder case, Barnes always stopped and had a quick chat with the housekeeper and cook. He’d learned he could trust them with information and, more important, the household had a knack for hearing gossip, facts, and speculations that a copper wouldn’t. They passed what they’d learned to him and oftentimes it was these small bits and pieces that enabled the case to be solved.

Barnes grinned broadly and sat down. “Thank you, ladies. I don’t have much to tell you as yet—the case has barely started—but we did learn a few interesting facts.” He glanced at the housekeeper. “I take it you had a word with Lady Cannonberry?”