Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (4 page)

“It’s always possible, Barnes,” Witherspoon replied. “Dr. Bosworth, did you…er…retrieve the weapon?”

“Naturally.” Bosworth pulled a long flat object wrapped in brown paper out of his bag and handed it to Barnes.
“We can’t have some poor soul being carted all over London with a knife sticking out of his back, can we? Here’s your evidence, all nice and neatly wrapped for you.”

“What kind of knife was it?” Witherspoon asked. He took the proffered object and quickly handed it to the constable. He was embarrassed to remember he’d not taken a proper look at it when he’d first come in tonight. But drat, he really hated examining things sticking out of people’s backs.

Bosworth snapped his bag closed. “It looks like a common kitchen knife. Not a new one, mind you. The wood handle was worn quite badly. The blade is ten inches long and quite sharp. My guess is it was sharpened very recently.”

“You say the handle was worn?” Witherspoon said hopefully. “Then perhaps someone will be able to identify the weapon.”

Bosworth shook his head. “When I said it was worn, I didn’t mean it had any distinguishing features, Inspector. I meant that it had been washed many times and a bit of the color had washed out of the wood. It’s a common kitchen knife. There’s nothing extraordinary about the weapon. You can probably find one in every household in London.”

“Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the inspector as she took his hat. “You’re rather late tonight. We were starting to worry.”

“I’m afraid my tardiness couldn’t be helped, Mrs. Jeffries. I hope the staff didn’t wait dinner on me,” Witherspoon replied. “I’m really not in the least hungry.”

“It’s only a cold supper, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Betsy can bring it up on a tray when you’re ready for it. Would you like a glass of sherry before you eat?”

“That’s an excellent idea.” Witherspoon followed his housekeeper into the drawing room and sat down in his favorite chair. “There’s been a murder, you see. Poor chap got himself stabbed tonight. That’s why I’m so late getting home.”

Mrs. Jeffries deliberately kept her face bland as she handed her employer a glass of pale amber sherry. Wiggins’s words tweaked her conscience a bit, but the truth
was, she was overjoyed. A murder. They had themselves a murder to investigate.

“How very unfortunate,” she said, taking a seat opposite the inspector. “Was it a domestic dispute of some kind?”

She sincerely hoped it wasn’t. Those kind of murders were never very interesting to snoop about in; they were simply too obvious. It was almost always a drunken husband or a mousy wife who had been pushed just that bit too hard.

“Oh no, not so far as we can tell.” Witherspoon took a sip of sherry. “A publican named Haydon Dapeers was killed. The knife went clean through his heart; at least that’s what Dr. Bosworth told me. Can you believe it? The poor man got murdered at his own birthday celebration.”

“How awful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She couldn’t believe her good luck. Dr. Bosworth was on the scene! The good doctor had given her information on the inspector’s cases on more than one occasion in the past. He was intelligent, observant and most important, he could keep his own counsel. She made a mental note to nip out and see Bosworth first thing tomorrow morning. But for now, she wanted as much information as possible. “Were there any witnesses?”

“No, Dapeers had gone back to the taproom when he was killed. No one saw anything. There was some kind of altercation out on the street when the murder happened. Everyone else in the place had dashed over to the windows or gone outside to have a look.”

“Were there a lot of people in the pub when the murder took place?” she asked.

“Actually, it was quite crowded. It was the pub’s opening night as well as Haydon Dapeers’s birthday. Sad really. Here the man was surrounded by friends and relatives and he ends up getting murdered. I don’t know, Mrs. Jeffries”—Witherspoon
shook his head sadly—“sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to.”

“Well, sir,” she said calmly, “I don’t really think I agree with you. Remember, you do see the results of violence more than most people. But do keep in mind that fifty years ago or so, there wouldn’t have been someone like you to even investigate this unfortunate person’s death. Scotland Yard and the entire police force didn’t even exist. At least now our society tries to make sure that justice is done, and you, sir, do more than anyone I know to ensure that it is.” She decided her dear inspector needed a bit of bucking up. Occasionally, he allowed the more sordid aspects of his work to undermine his self-confidence. She was sure that was what the problem was tonight. He was merely feeling as though he wouldn’t be up to the task in front of him.

“How good of you to remind me, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon sighed dramatically. “You’re right, of course. I daresay the world hasn’t really changed.”

“Actually, sir, I do believe that because of people like yourself, it’s a considerably better world than it used to be.” It never hurt to bolster the man’s opinion of himself.

“Thank you. I needed to hear those words.”

“It’s a wonder you got home before midnight,” Mrs. Jeffries said brightly. Now that the inspector was over his obligatory maudlin philosophizing, she wanted to get the details of the murder out of him while they were fresh in his mind. “What with all those people to interview.”

“Oh, I didn’t bother with that,” Witherspoon replied airily. “I told Barnes to make sure we had everyone’s name and address. I’ll start the interviewing tomorrow.”

Shocked, Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. “You don’t think one of the guests is the killer?”

“I’ve no idea who the killer is.” He shrugged. “But my
instinct was to let everyone go home. I thought perhaps it would be best to let the murderer think he’d gotten away with it.” He smiled kindly at his housekeeper. “Ever since you told me about listening to my ‘inner voice’ that time—you must remember, it was when I was having such a difficult time cracking that case.…” He paused, his forehead crinkled in concentration as he tried to recall precisely which case it was. “Oh, I don’t remember exactly which one it was, but it was last year sometime. I was having a dreadful time, simply dreadful. You advised me to listen to my instincts, to let my ‘policeman’s voice’ guide my actions and thoughts. Of course, you were absolutely right and I cracked that case in no time. I’m going to do the same thing on this one.”

Utterly speechless, Mrs. Jeffries gaped at him. Gracious, who would have thought he’d taken her words so seriously? All she’d ever done was to try to make him feel confident about himself. What had she created? “I see. And you thought it best to let all your suspects leave and go home tonight, is that it?”

“Yes.” He beamed at her. “That’s it precisely. I saw no point in keeping everyone hanging about the Gilded Lily Pub while I asked questions. I’ve found that murderers are far more likely to make mistakes when they think they have gotten away with it.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t agree. But she could hardly say so. Especially as the inspector seemed to be basing his behavior in this case on advice she’d previously given him. “Exactly where is the Gilded Lily Pub?”

“It’s not far from Scotland Yard.” Witherspoon drained his glass. “Quite a lovely place, actually. Brass fittings and gilded mirrors, beautiful etched windows and carved panels on the partitions. It’s the sort of place where one would feel comfortable taking a lady, if you know what I mean.
Perhaps when Lady Cannonberry returns from the country, we’ll try finding an equally refined pub around our own neighborhood here.”

“That’s a lovely idea. And the Gilded Lily is close to Scotland Yard, you say?”

“Not far at all.” He stood up abruptly. “I say, we haven’t gotten another letter from Lady Cannonberry, have we?”

“No, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to say calmly. She knew he missed their neighbor, but right now she didn’t want to discuss the inspector’s romantic affiliations. She wanted facts about this murder. “What time did the murder occur?”

“I think I’ll have that cold supper now,” Witherspoon said just as she asked her question. “I’m suddenly famished.”

“Is that all you got out of ’im?” Smythe asked incredulously. “Just the name of the pub and the name of the victim?”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She felt rather foolish. As soon as the inspector was safely ensconced in the dining room with his supper, she’d called the rest of the household together to tell them the news. But she had so very little to report. “I know it isn’t much, but he was in the strangest mood tonight. He wanted to talk about the murder, but he didn’t want to say very much.”

“You say he had a room full of suspects and he let them all go home without even interviewing them?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously. “That don’t sound right.”

“It isn’t right,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “For some strange reason, the inspector seems to think it’s best to let the killer think he got away with it. He won’t start interviewing the
people who were in the pub when the murder occurred until tomorrow.”

“Did you get us a few of their names?” Betsy asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Where’s this pub at, then?” Wiggins pressed.

“I’m not really sure,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But it’s quite near Scotland Yard.”

“’Ow about the time of death?” Smythe stared at her hopefully.

“Sometime this evening.”

“What kinda knife was it?” Wiggins asked.

“He didn’t say.”

“Blimey,” Smythe exclaimed, “you didn’t get much out of ’im, did ya?”

“It’s not Mrs. Jeffries’s fault if the inspector has suddenly got tongue-tied,” Betsy snapped. “So give it a rest.” She turned and smiled at the housekeeper. “What do you think has gotten into him? It’s not like the inspector to be so cagey. He usually tells you everything.”

Mrs. Jeffries was at a loss to explain the inspector’s behavior to the others. If she told them he was simply acting on advice she’d given him in the past, she’d feel absolutely idiotic. It would be difficult to make them understand. “He might have just been tired,” she ventured.

“Me too.” Wiggins yawned widely. “I’m dead on me feet. So what do we do now? It’s not like we’ve got much to start on.”

“We’ve got plenty of information,” the housekeeper said firmly. Just because Inspector Witherspoon had developed a bad case of discretion didn’t mean they weren’t going to get started right away. “We know the name of the victim, the name of the pub, the approximate time of death and we know the killer used a knife.”

“I can find out where this ’ere Gilded Lily Pub is,” Smythe volunteered. “If it’s near Scotland Yard, I can nip out to the stables tomorrow mornin’ and talk to one of the cabbies in the area. They know where all the pubs are.”

“But this was a new one,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “It had only just opened a few hours before the murder.”

Smythe waved a hand dismissively. “That don’t matter. The cabbies’ll know where it is.”

“How quickly can you find out?” Betsy asked.

“Be back before breakfast,” he replied, giving the maid a cocky grin. “And then we can get crackin’; right, Mrs. Jeffries?”

Smythe was as good as his word. As they sat down to breakfast the next morning, he rushed in through the back door, paused to pat Fred, who was bouncing at his feet, and then announced that the Gilded Lily Pub was on the corner of Minyard Street and Bonham Road. “It’s less than ’alf a mile from Scotland Yard,” he finished as he pulled out a chair and sat down.