“There’s a lot of that going about these days,” Betsy interrupted. “Agnes’ friend just got sacked from Humphreys House.”
“Who got sacked?” Wiggins demanded. “What’s ’er name?”
“Can I finish my report?” the cook cried.
“Sorry.” Betsy smiled apologetically and glanced at Wiggins. She mouthed “Rachel” as Mrs. Goodge continued speaking.
“As I was sayin’, it was a bit of a shock finding Mollie on my doorstep, but luckily, it turned out she did know something about our case.” Mrs. Goodge told them what she’d heard from her unwelcome guest. She gave them all the facts, but out of loyalty to her friend, she said nothing about Mollie’s emotional state. An old woman’s humiliation and tears wasn’t anyone else’s business. “I think we ought to send someone to the Chalmers household in case Estelle Collier’s maid is still there,” she concluded. “It would be good to know the name of the niece that was nursing her when she took a turn for the worse.”
“Especially as the poor woman died just when she was insisting the police are notified about the missing money,” Ruth added. “Not that I’m saying the niece is guilty—the two events happening at the same time could be a coincidence.”
“But who could we possibly send on such an errand?” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Her fingers drummed lightly against her teacup as she considered the problem.
“And the maid might not even still be there,” Betsy pointed out. “If she was a properly trained ladies’ maid and could do hair and knew how to take care of a wardrobe, she’d have not stayed long in a household as a scullery girl.”
“Agreed, but Mrs. Goodge is right. It’s important we find out who nursed Estelle Collier,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Even if the maid is no longer at the Chalmers household, they’ll have some idea where she went. As to who to send there, I think we ought to send Luty.”
“Madam doesn’t even know the Chalmerses,” Hatchet objected.
“Oh, that don’t make any difference.” Luty chuckled. “I’ll git into that house and have myself a nice, long chat with someone. Just leave it to me. I’ll find out everything we need to know.”
“Be careful of your boasts, madam. You’ve no idea who these people are or if they even still reside in the neighborhood. If they do, they’re quite likely to show you the door,” Hatchet replied irritably.
“You worry too much. What do you say we take a little bet on whether or not I can git in there and find out the girl’s whereabouts,” Luty retorted.
“We all have complete faith in your abilities,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected quickly. “So there’s no need for wagers. Just do your utmost to find out our information by tomorrow’s meeting. Can you do that for us?”
“You’ll know the niece’s name by tomorrow night,” Luty promised.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to Betsy. “Why don’t you go next?”
Betsy, who’d just taken a sip of tea, swallowed and put down her cup. “I tried talking to some of the shopkeepers in Michael Collier’s neighborhood, but no one seemed to know much about him, so I went to Acton and got very lucky. Just as I arrived, a young maid came out the servants’ entrance so I followed her.” She grinned. “And my luck got even better. I ended up having tea with Agnes Wilder, one of the few maids that is still left at the Humphreys home.”
“So it
was
Rachel that got the sack?” Wiggins shook his head sadly.
“That’s right, but according to Agnes, she was very lazy and had been warned about her work,” Betsy replied. “So I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the murder. But let me tell you the rest.” She told them everything Agnes had told her. “So it seems Mrs. Prescott is definitely playing the lady of the manor,” she finished.
“I’m more interested in why Imogene Ross is sneaking in and out the side entrance,” Hatchet mused. “Surely it wasn’t just to mail a few letters?”
“It’d be more than a few if she was actively lookin’ for a new position,” Mrs. Goodge said. “So that would explain the stack of correspondence Agnes saw her carryin’ out of the house. Believe me, when you’re lookin’ for work, you send inquiries to every prospect you see in the advertisements.”
“Mrs. Prescott appears to be certain she now owns the house,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “But does she?”
“If the inspector went to see the solicitor today, he ought to be able to give us that information when he gets home.” Smythe stared at the clock on the pine sideboard. “And if we don’t get on with this meetin’, he’s goin’ to arrive and catch us sittin’ here. If Betsy’s finished, I’d like to say my bit now.”
“Go on then.” Betsy grinned. “I’m done.”
Smythe told them what he’d learned from Blimpey Groggins.
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins cried when he’d finished his report. “This case is so ruddy complicated it’s goin’ to take Mrs. Jeffries a month of Sundays to suss it all out. Collier goin’ to a solicitor, Joseph Humphreys drinkin’ like there’s no tomorrow, poor Rachel gettin’ sacked for no reason—”
“But there was a reason,” Betsy protested. “The girl was lazy.”
“Maybe so, but she was sacked on the day of Humphreys’ funeral,” Wiggins pointed out. “Seems to me if they was ’avin’ a funeral reception at the ’ouse, they’d need all the servants to work and if you were goin’ to sack someone, you’d wait until the poor man was decently in the ground. Accordin’ to your Agnes, Rachel was fired that morning, before the funeral!”
“Wiggins is right.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the footman. “That is odd. Do you think you can find Rachel?”
“According to Agnes, she was going to a pub somewhere on Ealing Broadway,” Betsy supplied helpfully. “There couldn’t be too many of them.”
“But what should I ask her?” Wiggins looked confused. “I mean, I think it’s right important we talk to her, but now that I think about it, I’m not sure what it is we’re wantin’ to find out?”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure, either. “I don’t know, but I suspect that Rachel might have seen or heard something on the day of the murder.”
“So you think Annabelle Prescott is the killer?” Luty asked eagerly. “She’s the one that gave the instruction to sack the girl.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “We don’t know that. Furthermore, I think it equally important that Smythe go to the Sun and Moon pub and if possible, find out why Joseph Humphreys was uncharacteristically drinking himself into a stupor.”
The meeting broke up only minutes before Inspector Witherspoon arrived home. “Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she reached for his bowler. “Did you have a good day?”
“It was productive, I think.” He frowned as he unbuttoned his coat. “But then again, one is never sure.” His fingers stopped over a buttonhole. He took a deep breath, sniffing the air. “Ah, Mrs. Jeffries, what is that heavenly smell?”
“Roast chicken, sir. Mrs. Goodge has also done potatoes with an onion and parsley sauce, sprouts, and an apricot fool for dessert,” she replied. “It’s ready to eat whenever you are, sir.”
“I’m not in a hurry.” He resumed his task. “We can eat later. I think I’d like a nice glass of sherry. I take it you will join me?”
“Of course, sir.” She took his overcoat and hung it on the peg. She’d been hoping he’d want a sherry. “Go on into the drawing room, sir.”
A few moments later, he was ensconced in his favorite chair and she was handing him a glass of Harveys. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He reached for his sherry and took a quick drink. “This is precisely what I needed. It’s been a very busy day and I must say, Constable Gates isn’t the most useful fellow to have along when one is investigating a murder.”
“Really, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. “Perhaps he’s just inexperienced.”
“That’s what I thought,” he replied, taking another sip and this time, almost draining the glass. “He did fairly well for most of the day, especially after Humphreys’ solicitor put him firmly in his place, and I thought the rascal had learned his lesson. Bullying people simply does not work; honestly, you’d think these young pups had never heard of the admonition to do unto others as you would have done unto you.”
Mrs. Jeffries was a bit alarmed. The inspector generally didn’t quote scripture when he was on a case. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
He sighed. “It’s one of my secrets, Mrs. Jeffries, and not something I’d normally share with anyone, but I trust you.” He drained the glass completely and held it out to her for a refill. “May I have another, please?”
“Of course, sir.” She took the glass and got to her feet. But she was very confused. Gracious, this case was already muddled enough, Barnes was gone, Gates was a nuisance, the inspector was quoting the Bible, and now he wanted another drink. She went to the cupboard and poured another sherry. She took a deep breath and got hold of herself. Getting upset before she heard what the inspector had to say was foolish. “You were saying, sir,” she reminded him. She handed him his glass and took her seat.
“I was saying that it’s one of my secrets,” he said. “It’s how I get people to talk to me. Let’s be honest, Mrs. Jeffries. Most people, especially those who would be considered the criminal element, don’t generally like policemen. But I’ve found that if I treat everyone, including suspects, as I would wish to be treated, then I get very good results.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “It’s one of my ‘methods,’ as it were, but not one I’ve shared with anyone other than yourself.”
Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. In a bizarre sort of way, it made perfect sense. No one appreciated being bullied or patronized or dismissed. “I’m flattered you trust me with your secret, sir. I promise I’ll not tell anyone. I take it Constable Gates was unable to live up to your standards?”
“He did his best, I suppose,” Witherspoon murmured. He took another sip. “But he’s still very much a bully. Constable Barnes could be quite firm, but he only resorted to that particular tactic when people refused to cooperate. But as I said, the Humphreys’ solicitor put young Lionel firmly in his place.” He giggled. “He made him sit by the door.”
“Really, sir?”
“Oh yes, but all in all, the solicitor was very cooperative. He didn’t hold anything back.” Witherspoon went on to tell her everything Eldon Roberts had shared with him. “After that, we went along and had a brief word with Mr. Robert Eddington. He’d just come back from the funeral. I didn’t think it proper to question the family on the day they were burying their uncle.”
“Of course not, sir,” she responded. “Mr. Eddington was in the house on the afternoon of the murder, wasn’t he?”
“He was one of the guests,” Witherspoon replied. “But I’m afraid he could tell us very little.”
“How unfortunate.” She took a sip from her glass.
“All he said was that there was a loud boom and everyone rushed upstairs,” Witherspoon muttered. “Of course we already knew that.”
“What relationship did Mr. Eddington have with Francis Humphreys?”
“They were both train enthusiasts,” Witherspoon explained. “They’ve known one another for years. Mr. Eddington did say he was rather surprised by the invitation to tea, though. Apparently, he’d not spent much time with Humphreys in the last year or so.”
Somewhere deep inside, the bare bones of an idea nudged Mrs. Jeffries’ brain, but it scampered away before she could grasp the thing and make it tell her anything useful. Drat. “Were they estranged?” she asked. “Was there discord between them?”
“Not according to Mr. Eddington,” Witherspoon said. He tossed back the last of his sherry. “He said they’d simply become interested in different aspects of the railway. But I’m not sure that’s quite true as he was going on about those people who like ‘broad gauge’ as opposed to those who favored ‘narrow gauge.’ I’m quite an enthusiast myself, Mrs. Jeffries, but all I ever wish to do is look at the engines as they come through a railway station. But apparently, there are many who are very interested in every detail. Apparently, Eddington and Francis Humphreys were on opposing sides of the gauge issue, odd as it may seem.”
“Do you seriously consider Mr. Eddington a suspect?”
He smiled wearily. “Not really. He had nothing to gain by Humphreys’ death, despite their disagreement over the best gauge for a railway.”
“What about the Elliots, sir?” she asked. She remembered from her walk in the garden that she was going to bring them up. “When are you going to interview them? After all, sir, as you said, they came a long ways just to have tea with Francis Humphreys.” He’d said no such thing, but his memory was such that she was fairly safe in making the assertion.
“I said that?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, yes, of course, that’s a very valid point. I haven’t spoken to them as yet, but I’ll be sure to bring it up tomorrow.”
“Will they be here, sir? Or will they be going back to Dorset now that the funeral service is over?” she asked innocently. “Oh yes, of course they’ll stay. They’ll want to hear the will read.”
“Quite right.” He nodded in agreement. “And I shall interview them tomorrow.” He was annoyed with himself and, if truth be told, with Constable Gates. He’d completely forgotten about the Elliots and if he’d been working with Constable Barnes, Barnes would have reminded him. “I do miss our Constable Barnes.”
“As do I, sir,” she murmured before she caught herself. “Did you learn anything else today?”
“Not really.” He got to his feet. “As I’ve said, the family had been to the funeral and it didn’t seem appropriate to bother any of them today. But now that the poor man is decently buried, I’ll be having another interview with everyone.”
Constable Barnes was at their back door well before breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Jeffries, who’d not slept more than a few hours, was already up and about the kitchen when she heard his soft knock in the wee hours of the morning.
“Good morning, Constable,” she said softly as she ushered him in the back door.
“Sorry to be here so early,” he replied with an embarrassed grin. “I saw your light and I wanted to have a quick word with you.”