Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (22 page)

“I hope you all have had better luck than we have,” Luty said glumly. She dropped down into an empty chair and stared at the circle of morose faces around the table. “From the looks of it, your luck has been about as bad as ours.”

“I take it you didn’t find out anything,” Mrs. Jeffries stated.

“Not a dag-gone thing,” Luty grimaced. “And I spent all day talking to people. No one seen anything, no one knows anything and no one heard anything.”

“I told you it was a waste of time buying those street arabs sweets,” Hatchet said dryly. “They only told you they’d been hanging about the Gilded Lily on the day of
the murder because they overheard you questioning that cabbie.”

“I know that, Hatchet.” Luty glared at her butler. “But them young’uns never get sweets. I didn’t hurt us none to buy ’em some. I saw you slippin’ that little boy some money when you thought I wasn’t lookin’, so don’t be jawin’ at me none.”

Hatchet blushed. “Well, the lad did look awfully thin.”

“Did anyone learn anything today?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She hoped someone had something to report. She’d insisted everyone return for tea in the hopes that one of them would find out something the rest of them could use.

Betsy cleared her throat. “Well, I did find out something,” she said slowly. She glanced at Smythe. She had to tread carefully here; she had to use just the right words to explain what had happened this afternoon. Not that McNally had really been mad, but if she didn’t tell it just so, it would sound that way. In truth, once she’d got McNally to stop crying and talked with him a bit, she’d actually felt sorry for the poor fellow. But if they knew the details about her encounter, if they knew she’d been stupid enough to follow a suspect down a dark passageway and onto a deserted dock, she’d be shut up in this house polishing silver till her hair turned as white as Luty’s.

“Good.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled eagerly. “I’m glad one of us has had some success.”

“I think we can take McNally off our list of suspects.” Betsy smiled blandly and reached for the cream pitcher.

Everyone waited for her to continue. Betsy poured the cream in her tea and concentrated on stirring it with her spoon.

“Well, go on,” Smythe urged. “Tell us the rest of it.”

Betsy couldn’t stare at her teacup for the rest of the afternoon, so she looked up. “There isn’t anything else.”

“Whaddaya mean, there isn’t anything else?” Smythe eyed her suspiciously. There was something she weren’t tellin’ and that was a fact.

“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly, “surely you have a reason for telling us McNally shouldn’t be a suspect?”

“Of course I do,” Betsy agreed. She swallowed nervously and looked around the table. Everyone was staring at her. Mrs. Jeffries looked concerned, Luty and Hatchet gazed at her like she’d been out in the sun too long, Mrs. Goodge was glaring at her as if she hadn’t wiped her feet before coming into the kitchen and Smythe frowned fierce enough to strip paint off the walls.

“But it’s a bit difficult,” she continued. “You’ll just have to take my word for it, he couldn’t of done it.” After talking to McNally, she’d come to the conclusion that the man was too timid to squash a bug, let alone stick a knife in someone’s back.

“You did something dangerous, didn’t you?” Smythe said softly.

Startled, Betsy jerked in surprise.

His frown, if possible, grew fiercer. “I knew it.” If Betsy didn’t know him so well, she’d have been afraid. “I knew you’d been out and about doin’ somethin’ that coulda got you hurt or even killed! I can always tell, you get all quiet and sneaky like.”

“I do not,” Betsy cried. “It’s just that there’s no need to be tellin’ everyone all the details. McNally’s such a nervous old thing he could no more shove a knife in someone’s back than he could walk on the Thames.”

“Aha, so you admit you’ve confronted McNally,” Smythe yelled.

Mrs. Jeffries decided to intervene. Smythe was overly protective of all the household, but he was ridiculously protective of Betsy. This wasn’t the first time they’d come to
words about the issue and it wouldn’t be the last. But right now this case was such a puzzle she didn’t need an outbreak of war between the two of them. “Smythe, please. Calm yourself. I’m sure Betsy knew precisely what she was doing today. Let’s not discuss this matter right now. We’re already muddled enough about this case; if Betsy is sure one of our suspects can be eliminated, then I suggest we take her word for it.”

Smythe looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but he contented himself with giving Betsy one last frown. “All right,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll put it aside. For now.”

“I don’t know that eliminating McNally from our list is goin’ to help matters none,” Luty said bluntly. “Truth is, I’m as confused as a drunken miner on Saturday night I can’t make heads nor tails of this murder and I don’t think any of the rest of you can either.”

For once, Hatchet didn’t argue. “I agree, madam. So far, we’ve had a man murdered who was hated by his wife, his family, his employees and everyone else who knew him. Everyone had a motive, we have no witnesses, no physical evidence and the inspector isn’t talking. I’m afraid I don’t have a good feeling about this one. We may not be able to solve it.”

Mrs. Jeffries was hard-pressed to disagree with him. She felt the same way. But they mustn’t give up. They had to keep trying. “Let’s not get discouraged,” she said brightly. “I think we’re doing quite well. Has anyone else learned anything today?”

“Don’t look at me,” Mrs. Goodge mumbled. “None of my sources could come up with anything.”

“I did,” Wiggins said. He wished he’d had time to have a quick word with Smythe, but he’d got home so late he hadn’t had a chance.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded for him to continue.

Wiggins took a deep breath. “Mrs. Dapeers knew that her husband had got a nasty disease. She found out last week and screamed her head off.”

“Disease?” Mrs. Goodge asked irritably. “What disease?”

“The shanker,” Wiggins mumbled in a low voice. He was pretty sure he knew what it was, and he didn’t think it was the sort of thing one discussed in front of the ladies.

“The what?” Luty frowned. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Speak up, Wiggins.” Betsy leaned toward him. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Say it again,” the cook demanded.

“Did you say he had the canker?” Hatchet asked. “Do you mean canker sores? Goodness, they’re quite painful, but I can’t think why they should cause such distress that someone would scream about them. They’re only mouth ulcers.”

Smythe looked down at the tabletop. He was trying not to grin. He’d heard Wiggins quite clearly.

“I said he caught the shanker,” Wiggins muttered again, raising his voice a fraction. Blimey, from the way Smythe was grinnin’, he was dead sure that this disease was what he thought it was. Blast. Now he’d have to say it out loud.

“The what?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “The shank-hill?”

“Wiggins is trying to tell us that Moira Dapeers had obviously found out her husband was infected with syphilis,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly.

Mrs. Jeffries had done some thinking. She still wasn’t certain of very much, but she did know that what she’d learned from the others this afternoon convinced her that this case was far too complex to leave to the inspector. She was determined to feed him some clues and information, whether he wanted it or not.

Consequently, she had his sherry poured and waiting by his favorite chair when he came in that evening.

“I’ve taken the liberty of fixing you a sherry,” she announced as she took his hat from him. “You’ve been working so very hard on this case, I thought you might need a few moments to relax before dinner.”

“That’s most kind of you, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon replied. “But won’t Mrs. Goodge have supper cooked?”

“It’s been so warm today that Mrs. Goodge thought you’d prefer a cold meal, sir.” She started down the hall. “It’ll keep until you’ve had a few moments to yourself.”

He followed her into the drawing room, sat down and
picked up the glass. The liquid sloshed over the tips of his fingers. “I say, this is a rather full glass you’ve given me.” He laughed. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

She was trying to loosen his tongue, but she could hardly admit it. “Oh dear, how foolish of me. I must not have been paying attention when I poured it. Sorry about that, sir. So tell me, how was your day?”

Witherspoon took a sip from the overly full glass, taking care not to spill. “Oh, things are progressing nicely. By the way, did you post my letter to Lady Cannonberry?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied quickly. She didn’t want him to get started about that again. “Wiggins posted it this morning.”

“Good, then she ought to get it tomorrow.” He frowned suddenly. “You don’t think I was too affectionate in my reply to her, do you? I shouldn’t like her to think I’m being overly bold.”

Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to smile. “You were perfectly correct in your letter, sir. Right on the mark. Now, sir, did you question more—”

“But I wasn’t too formal, was I?” he interrupted. “I shouldn’t like her to think I’m stuffy. Lady Cannonberry might be the widow of a lord, but you know, she’s quite progressive in her thinking. Why, actually, she’s a bit more than just progressive. Just between you and me, Mrs. Jeffries, I think she’d like to see some rather radical changes in our whole system. Not that we’ve discussed it overly much, mind you. But she does occasionally say things which I find quite extraordinary. Quite extraordinary, indeed. Do you know, she told me she thought that women ought to be able to vote and she was positively incensed at all the public funds that were spent celebrating Her Majesty’s jubilee year.”

“I’m sure she was, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She knew
all about Lady Cannonberry’s radical opinions, and for the most part she agreed with them. But she didn’t wish to discuss it right now. She racked her brain, trying to come up with a conversational gambit that would get the inspector talking about this murder. “There were a number of people who felt the funds raised for the jubilee would be better spent elsewhere. Perhaps those people are right, sir.”

“Do you really think so?” Witherspoon took another sip.

“Yes, sir, I do,” she said firmly. “Just take this dreadful murder you’re investigating. It seems to me that if we had a society that paid a bit more attention to the poor and the unfortunate, we probably wouldn’t have desperate people running about killing other people.”

Witherspoon waved his hand in the air. “I’m afraid I don’t agree with you. Though I must admit that your comment does have merit in some cases, I’ve seen a number of crimes where the culprit was more to be pitied than imprisoned, but I’m afraid you’re way off the mark about the murder of Mr. Dapeers.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Mrs. Jeffries smiled brightly, pleased that her trick had worked. “How so, sir? I mean, it seems to me the victim might have been murdered because he walked in on someone trying to rob the pub. That person might not have meant to commit murder at all. He could have been a simple robber. Someone who might have been starving or looking for a few shillings to buy medicine for one of his children. It seems to me, sir, that if our society actually provided a bit more for people like that, they wouldn’t be driven to commit crimes.”

“This wasn’t a murder committed by someone desperate for a few pennies to buy a loaf of bread,” the inspector said quickly. “Haydon Dapeers was murdered by someone who knew him, someone who had a pressing reason to get him out of the way.”

“So you know who the killer is?” she persisted.

“Well, not exactly,” he replied. “But I’ve a good idea. A very good idea, indeed.”

“Really, sir? Oh, do tell me!” she cried enthusiastically. “You know what an admirer of your methods I am. Please don’t leave me in suspense. I shan’t sleep a wink all night if you do.” She was laying it on thicker than clotted cream, but she didn’t care. At this point she’d try anything.

He smiled widely. Perhaps he should tell her what he had in mind. The plan was really quite sound. Quite reasonable. It might be just the thing to put it into words. Sound it out, so to speak. Besides, it was really too selfish of him to keep the poor woman in the dark. He knew how much his housekeeper admired him. “If everything goes as I plan,” he began eagerly, “by tomorrow night, the killer will be safely under lock and key.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed at him incredulously. Had he lost his mind? Making an arrest at this stage would be fatal to the inspector’s career. Absolutely fatal. There was too much he didn’t know, too many suspects he hadn’t even considered and too many motives for Witherspoon to have sorted it out and come up with a plan. Any plan he came up with at this stage would land the inspector back in the records room faster than you could blink your eye. She had to do something. “How very clever of you, sir. Do tell me more.”

Witherspoon smiled proudly. By the expression on Mrs. Jeffries’s face, he could tell she was quite stunned by his brilliance. “I’ve a few more details to take care of tomorrow,” he continued, “but—” He was interrupted as Fred came bounding into the room.