Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (22 page)

“This room was decorated by my late wife,” Kirkland said softly.

Witherspoon started, unaware his perusal had been so obvious. “Your home is very beautiful, Mr. Kirkland.”

Kirkland looked amused. “Unfortunately, my Katherine has passed away. We didn’t have many years together so I’ve left everything just as it was when she was alive. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss home decorating with me. How may I help you?”

“We need to ask you questions,” Lionel said harshly. He was perched at the end of the couch with his notebook and pencil at the ready. He did not look happy. Witherspoon was certain the lad hadn’t gotten over having to sit by the door at the solicitor’s office.

“There’s no need for rudeness, Constable,” Witherspoon chided. “Mr. Kirkland has been most gracious. I’ll ask the questions. You can take notes.”

Lionel gasped, caught himself, and muttered, “Yes sir.”

The inspector turned his attention back to Kirkland. “How long have you been acquainted with Mr. Francis Humphreys?”

“A very long time,” Kirkland replied. “We’re both train enthusiasts and we met twenty years ago at my club.”

“Which one is that, sir?” Witherspoon glanced at Gates to make sure he was taking notes and saw that he was writing away in his little brown book.

“The Hayden on Salisbury Street,” he said. “I forget precisely how it happened, but one day we both realized we loved trains. It was Francis’ only real passion.”

“Had you been invited to have tea with Mr. Humphreys on the afternoon that he was murdered?” Witherspoon asked. He couldn’t recall, but he had the distinct impression that Kirkland had been a very unwelcome guest.

“As a matter of fact, I was.” Kirkland smiled wryly. “I know what you’ve heard, Inspector. Francis and I were at odds over a certain matter and when I arrived at the house that day, it was obvious that my appearance was a surprise to the rest of the family, but I assure you, I was an invited guest.” He reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to the inspector. “See for yourself.”

Witherspoon pulled out the note page, opened it, and read the contents.

 

Witherspoon hesitated for a moment and then handed the paper back to Kirkland. He’d no reason to take the note into evidence. Thus far, the man wasn’t a suspect. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate your cooperation. Now, can you tell me the nature of your disagreement with Mr. Humphreys?”

Kirkland pursed his lips. “Is that necessary, Inspector? I assure you, it’s nothing to do with why he was murdered. It was a small matter and I’d prefer to keep it private.”

Lionel cleared his throat and opened his mouth, as though he wanted to speak, but Witherspoon gave him a quick frown and the constable sank back into his seat.

Witherspoon knew what the lad was going to say, and though the inspector regretted having to delve into personal matters, especially with a gentleman of Mr. Kirkland’s generation, it had to be said. “Mr. Kirkland, I’m very sorry, but this is a murder investigation and I’m afraid respecting the privacy of the deceased is out of the question. We need to know everything.”

“I was afraid of that.” Kirkland smiled wearily. “It’s not a very pretty story, Inspector. As I told you, Francis and I had known each other for a very long time. Fifteen years ago, I met an American woman named Estelle Collier. We’d been introduced at a ball by a mutual acquaintance who felt we’d have much in common. I loved railways and her family had a substantial interest in every major railway in North America. But that wasn’t why I fell in love with her. I’ve plenty of money of my own. At that time in my life, I was well into my forties and had assumed I’d be a bachelor for the rest of my days.” He broke off and shrugged. “I’m sure you can guess the rest. I made the mistake of introducing her to my good friend, Francis. Then I was unexpectedly called back to the family estate in Northumberland because my father was very ill. He died a few weeks after I arrived home.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Witherspoon murmured.

“He was an old man and he had a long, good life,” Kirkland replied. “But I digress. It took several months to sort his affairs and by the time I arrived back in London, Estelle and Francis were engaged.”

“Did Mr. Humphreys know of your feelings toward the lady?” Witherspoon asked. It didn’t seem likely that someone would wait fifteen years to seek revenge upon a romantic rival, but the inspector had once had a case where a man waited more than thirty years to get back at the people who’d wronged him.

“He did.” Kirkland crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d told Francis of my intentions toward Estelle before I left for the north. He knew full well I was going to ask her to be my wife. Of course I was furious when I found out and Francis and I had words. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say, afterwards, we were no longer friends. I spoke to him only one other time before he died.”

“And that was the day he was murdered?” Witherspoon pressed.

He shook his head. “I didn’t actually speak to him that day. The last time we exchanged words to one another was just after Estelle died, when her will was read. Her solicitor asked me to come to the reading as I was one of the beneficiaries. She left me a number of shares in the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.” He chuckled. “Francis was furious. He made a dreadful scene. He accused me of unduly influencing his wife. I told him I’d not seen her in years and that I’d happily take the shares. It would give me something to remember her by.”

“He didn’t offer to buy them from you?” Lionel asked politely.

Witherspoon gave the constable an approving glance. Perhaps the lad was finally learning that one got far more cooperation if one was courteous and civil.

“He did, but I was furious myself and I refused to sell.” Kirkland sighed. “You see, I knew how badly he wanted those shares. My Katie told me I was being foolish and that no good could come of repaying evil for evil, that the shares meant nothing to me and everything to him so I ought to let him have the wretched things. But I didn’t listen.”

“Do you have any idea why she left the shares to you?” Witherspoon asked curiously.

He uncrossed his arms and stared off into the distance for a few moments. “I think she wanted to hurt him. You see, I had seen Estelle after her marriage to Francis. It was about a year after their wedding, and we ran into one another at a ball. Francis wasn’t with her; he’d gone hunting in Scotland. We sat down and had supper together. She was much too loyal to tell me straight out that she’d made a dreadful mistake, but it was obvious from her manner that she wasn’t happy.”

“You weren’t angry at her for trifling with you? She up and married someone else when she should have waited for you,” Lionel blurted. “Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”

“She hadn’t trifled with me,” Kirkland shot back. “She’d no idea I’d been in love with her and like the arrogant fool I was, I’d not bothered to tell her how I felt. But that’s not the point. By then, I was no longer in love with her, but she’d hurt my pride and I was less than kind that night. She wanted us to be friends, but I told her I was engaged and my fiancée was very particular about our social acquaintances. It was a lie; of course my Katie would have been the first to extend the hand of friendship to a lonely woman like Estelle. Years later, when Estelle died and left me the shares, I felt guilty that I’d let her down when she needed my friendship the most. She left me those shares because she didn’t want Francis to have them so keeping them was the only way I knew to make up for what I’d done. So I refused to sell them to him. Then a few days ago, he sent me the note asking me to come to tea.”

“Why did he invite you?” Witherspoon asked. That was the real question.

“Was it to get you to sell the railway shares?” Lionel asked eagerly.

“When my wife died last year, I sold the wretched things and gave every penny of the money to the Battersea Orphan’s Home.” Kirkland straightened up. “I don’t think he invited me for any reason other than he wanted to try to mend our friendship. We were once very close. Not only did we both love trains, but we spent a lot of time together as well. We used to go shooting out in the country. He’d bring his nieces and nephews out to my country house in Kent, and we’d load everyone into a hay wagon and head into the fields to shoot. It was great fun. I think he was simply getting old and lonely. But then again”—he sighed heavily and slumped back against the cushions—“aren’t we all?”

 

Mrs. Jeffries slipped into her chair and plastered a serene smile on her face. There was an air of excitement around the table this afternoon and that, of course, meant that everyone had learned something. She only wished she could say the same for herself. “Who would like to go first?”

“Well, mine will likely be the shortest,” Luty said. “I had a word with an acquaintance of mine that runs the Exhibition Hall at the Crystal Palace.”

“Crystal Palace?” Hatchet stared at her incredulously.

“Now just hold your horses and your tongue,” Luty warned. “I know it don’t seem like an exhibition hall has anything to do with our case, but if you’ll think for a minute—”

“I see what you mean,” Wiggins interrupted. “You went there to find out if anyone knew Yancy Humphreys. He used to show off his gadgets in some of them exhibitions.”

Luty nodded in satisfaction. “That’s right, and it turned out it was good that I went there. Archie did know Humphreys, well, he didn’t know him personally, but he remembers the man. Seems Yancy Humphreys exhibited a bunch of his contraptions in the hall a few years back. He was tryin’ to drum up some interest in his inventions. Archie said a couple of them were pretty interesting. One of them was a mechanical device that used a clockwork spring of some sort so that every hour or so it . . . uh . . . well, it did something . . .” She broke off, frowning in confusion. “Nells bells, I can’t recall all the fancy words Archie used, but the heart of the matter is that from the way Archie described it, the contraption was the kind of invention a confectionary manufacturer might have seen and copied. Archie said it was designed so the timing mechanism could be changed from seconds to minutes to hours and that bits on it could be changed to suit whatever purpose was needed. Archie said that Humphreys claimed the thing had lots of uses. I got to thinkin’ that if you’re makin’ candy, you cook it for so long, then you add your other ingredients, and then you pour it out right quick and set it to harden.”

“I see what you’re sayin’.” Mrs. Goodge nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, imagine if you could have a machine that did all your mixin’ and addin’ for you.”

Luty nodded. “So I asked Archie and he had a look at the old records and there were three confectionary representatives registered when Yancy was showin’ off his gadgets. I just thought it was mighty suspicious that right when Francis Humphreys was murdered, Smythe finds out that there’s someone worried about whether Pamela Bowden Humphreys might be able to sue for patent infringement.”

“But she wasn’t the one that was murdered,” Hatchet reminded her.

Luty rolled her eyes. “I know that. But that don’t mean the two events aren’t connected.”

“You’re absolutely right, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries intervened quickly. “At this point in the investigation, we don’t want to ignore any information. As you say, we’ve no idea what might or might not turn out to be useful.”

Luty smiled triumphantly. “Thank you. That’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll go next,” Ruth volunteered. She waited a fraction of a second and when no one objected, she plunged straight into her report. “I didn’t have much luck at Francis Humphreys’ funeral this morning. Truth to tell, I didn’t even get invited back to the house for the reception.”

“You didn’t hear anything?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “That’s a pity.”

“Not unless you count eavesdropping on two women as I left the church, but all they were talking about was the seating arrangements for the service. Apparently, one of the women thought it unseemly that Michael Collier, a single man, was sitting right next to Imogene Ross, a single woman.” Ruth giggled. “But as the church was packed full of people, I don’t expect that anyone, even the family, had much choice in the seating arrangements. But even though I had no luck at the service, I’d invited my friend Marisol Pulman around for tea this afternoon and she was a veritable fountain of knowledge.” Ruth told them everything she’d learned. She didn’t embellish or form any opinions. She simply repeated as much of the conversation as she could recall. When she’d finished, she sat back in her chair, picked up her cup, and took a sip of tea.

“That’s sad, isn’t it,” Betsy commented. “Annabelle Prescott married and then felt she’d been cheated.” She looked at Smythe. “Stupid woman, she ought to have taken the time to get to know her man.”

“What’s the old adage? ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure, ’ ” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “I always thought that was a stupid saying. I’ve seen a number of miserable marriages where both parties had known each other for years. Seems to me that sometimes you never get to know people very well. Take what happened this morning, for instance. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I opened that back door and saw Mollie Dubay standin’ there. Oh, sorry, Lady . . . Ruth . . . were you through with your report?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then why don’t you tell us about your day,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. It was obvious the cook was dying to go next.

“If you insist. Well, as I was sayin’, I opened the back door and instead of it bein’ the source I was expectin’, there was Mollie Dubay. She worked in Lord Fremont’s house or rather she did until this morning, but she got sacked—”