Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (4 page)

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve no idea what on earth to buy the woman. That’s why I nipped home, you see. I was hoping one of you might suggest the proper sort of present one should buy for a superior’s spouse.”

The women cast quick, covert glances at one another. They understood their inspector’s dilemma; this was, indeed, a very delicate matter. But they had a dilemma of
their own they considered equally important—namely, to get Inspector Witherspoon out of their kitchen before Smythe or Wiggins came barging in.

Mrs. Goodge took the initiative. “It’s quite simple, sir. You must buy her something nice, but not too personal.”

Witherspoon shook his head eagerly. “That’s what I thought, too. I was thinking perhaps I ought to get her a nice carpetbag.”

“Oh, that’s too expensive, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. Witherspoon’s face fell. “You don’t want to get her a gift that will be nicer than the one her husband gives her.”

“How about a box of lace runners?” the cook suggested. “They’ve got some lovely ones at Hunts on the Kensington High Street.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. She didn’t really care what the inspector bought Chief Inspector Barrows’s wife; she simply wanted him out of the kitchen. “It’s a perfect gift for Mrs. Barrows. One can never have enough lace runners.”

The inspector brightened. “Good, then I’ll get them. I’m so glad I came home; I’d have never thought of something like that. I was thinking I ought to buy her some gloves.”

“You’ve got be careful buying things to wear, sir,” Betsy said quickly. “Some women are real particular about what they like and what they don’t like.”

Witherspoon looked at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. He got to his feet. “I ought to have plenty of time to nip out and get the present. Uh, what color do you think I ought to get?”

“They only come in white or cream,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “Either will do.”

“Excellent, excellent. Well, thank you, ladies, you’ve been enormously helpful.” He turned toward the back
door as it banged open and the sound of running footsteps could be heard. A moment later, Wiggins, closely followed by a panting Fred, the household dog, came bounding into the kitchen.

Upon seeing the inspector, Fred charged across the floor and began bouncing up and down enthusiastically.

“Hello, old boy.” Witherspoon was devoted to the bundle of brown-and-black fur. If the truth were known, he was just a tad jealous of the relationship that Wiggins and the dog shared.

“Cor blimey, sir, we didn’t expect to see you,” Wiggins looked curiously at the others as the inspector and Fred indulged in their mutual admiration.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled briefly and then explained why the inspector had come home.

“The ladies have been most helpful,” Witherspoon exclaimed as he gave the dog one last pat. “Most helpful indeed. I shall be home as soon as I’ve made my purchase. The chief inspector lives in St. John’s Wood, so I shall be needing the carriage tonight. Do be so kind as to let Smythe know.” He was unable to resist giving the dog another stroke.

“We’ll do that, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries edged toward the hall, she wanted to get the man out of the house. Smythe wouldn’t have much time to give his report if he had to go to the livery stable and get the carriage ready.

The inspector finally said his goodbyes and, accompanied by Mrs. Jeffries, was soon heading toward the front door.

“What’ll we do now?” Wiggins asked. He plopped down at the table and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Smythe’s not gonna be pleased with ’avin’ to cart the inspector around all evenin’ on the first day of an investigation.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Goodge said. “We’ll not be doing much tonight.”

“We could ’ave a meeting with Luty and Hatchet,” Wiggins suggested. “I think we’ll want them to know what’s goin’ on.”

Betsy shrugged. “It won’t hurt Smythe to wait until tomorrow.” She was secretly rather pleased that her beloved would spend the first night of the investigation driving the coach and not snooping about or shadowing that maid Martha. On several of their other murders, he’d been able to go out in the night and begin investigating while she and the other women had had to wait until the following day. For once, she might actually get the jump on him.

“Smythe’s not goin’ to like that.” Wiggins grinned. “Especially after you ’ear what I found out down at the station. Constable Griffiths knew ever so much.”

Just then Smythe came into the kitchen. “What am I not goin’ to like?” he asked.

Smythe wasn’t pleased when he heard about the inspector’s plans for the evening. “Bloomin’ Ada,” he muttered. “Why tonight? I wanted to talk to a few of my sources.” Frowning, he plunked himself down at the table.

Mrs. Jeffries came back to the kitchen and took the chair the inspector had vacated only moments earlier. She turned to Wiggins. “I take it you believe Martha is telling the truth?”

“I ’ad a nice natter with Constable Griffiths,” Wiggins replied. “That bloodhound did dig up a corpse. It was in the newspapers. But I guess none of us seen it.”

“That’s odd,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “I generally make a note of things like bodies being found.”

“He’d been murdered?” Mrs. Goodge prodded. Simply
finding a body didn’t guarantee one also found a murder.

“Throat was sliced like a butchered pig,” the footman said cheerfully. “They don’t ’ave a clue who done it, either. Like Martha said, he was a pickpocket. But Tim Porter wasn’t much of anythin’ else, if you know what I mean.”

“Even petty thieves ’ave enemies,” Smythe said.

“Yeah, but accordin’ to Constable Griffiths, this bloke were known to avoid anythin’ that was violent. Bit of a coward, so to speak.”

The housekeeper nodded approvingly at the footman. “You’ve done very well. Did the constable share anything else with you?”

“You’re not goin’ to like this part.” Wiggins’s grin faded. “The case was given to Inspector Nivens on account of the victim bein’ a known thief. No one expects he’ll ever catch the killer. I’d bet against it myself.”

“Indeed, that murderer has little to worry about, then,” Mrs. Goodge snorted in derision. “Not if Nivens is on the hunt.”

“Nivens couldn’t find the back end of horse, not even if he was ridin’ on it,” Smythe muttered. “Let alone a murderer.”

“They must not want to catch the killer.” Betsy shook her head in disgust.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t try to stem the tide of anger directed at Inspector Nigel Nivens. He was an ambitious, self-serving little toad who was always trying to prove that Witherspoon had help in solving his cases. He went tattling to the chief inspector at the slightest pretext and used a system of informants to solve what few burglary cases he had each year. He was the sort of fellow you didn’t want to sit next to on a long train trip. Nigel Nivens’s favorite topic was Nigel Nivens. Mrs. Jeffries loathed him. And she suspected that the feeling was mutual.
On more than one occasion, she’d had to dodge both him and his questions. “Well, let’s hope that this case doesn’t involve Nivens more than necessary. We don’t want him interfering with our investigation. Anything else, Wiggins?”

The footman frowned thoughtfully. He didn’t want to leave something out. “Not that I can remember. I ’ad to be right careful when I was askin’ questions.” He grinned at Betsy. “Wouldn’t want the constable to get suspicious.”

“Can I tell my bit now?” Smythe asked. There was only the barest hint of impatience in his tone.

“By all means,” the housekeeper replied.

“I followed Martha to Orley Road. As she got to the front door, it opened and this tall woman poked her head out and started natterin’ at the girl.”

“The maid used the front door?” Mrs. Goodge’s voice was only the smallest bit disapproving. Which actually showed how far she’d come since she’d begun investigating with the others. When they’d first come together, the cook would have been of the opinion that there were no circumstances which would justify a servant using the front door. Under the influence of Mrs. Jeffries and the rest of them, however, she’d lost much of her snobbish attitude. Indeed, there were moments when she was almost radical in her views.

Smythe nodded.

“Could you hear what she said?” Betsy asked.

“I was too far away. But I’ll tell ya one thing, that woman looked mighty worried.”

“Then what happened?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She wanted to hurry him along. There might be things that needed doing before the inspector returned.

“I waited a few minutes and then I nipped around the corner so that I could see the back of the house. The
school’s deserted, all right. Place looks like it’s falling down.”

“Did you go inside?” Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain she knew the answer already.

“Popped over the fence in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. The caretaker weren’t in sight, so I snooped about and had a good look at the wall dividing the school from the houses along Orley Road. There was two big indentions right there in the mud where a ladder’d been propped. You could still see ’em, and most importantly, there were a bunch of bricks missing from the top of the wall.”

“What about the table?” Betsy asked. “If the wall is as high as Martha said it was, were you able to see where the table was?”

“I managed.” He grinned at the maid. “I’m not a young’un, but no ten-foot wall will stop me from ’avin’ a look. The table was pushed back away from the wall, but you could see by the scratch marks on the paving where it’d been. Any bricks dropping from the top could have clomped someone sitting there. Probably killed ’em, too.”

“It still seems a very unreliable way to try and murder someone,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“Maybe the killer’s a stupid git,” Wiggins suggested. “Not all murderers are smart—”

“We don’t know that we have a murderer,” the housekeeper interrupted. “All we know for certain is that Miss Gentry appears to be having some very unfortunate accidents.” But she did know that they had a case; she could feel it in her bones.

“Three accidents in two weeks,” the cook said. “That’s an awful lot of bad luck if you ask me.”

“What do we do now?” Betsy asked.

Everyone stared at Mrs. Jeffries. She thought about it for a moment and then said, “If all of you agree, I think we ought to proceed as we usually do.”

There was a collective rumble of agreement.

“Should I go get Luty and Hatchet?” Wiggins asked. He started to get up but Mrs. Jeffries waved him back to his seat.

“That’s a good idea,” she said, “but do wait until after the inspector comes home. He may want to take Fred for a walk or something before he goes out. Besides, you’ve got to shine his good shoes and brush his dinner jacket.”

Wiggins slumped back into his chair. “Can’t someone else do that? I hate brushin’ that jacket; all them little dusty bits go up my nose.”

“There wouldn’t be any dusty bits if you kept the inspector’s closet aired properly,” Mrs. Goodge retorted.

As the household really didn’t need a footman, Mrs. Jeffries had assigned Wiggins some light valet duties. Not that their employer expected such service, but only to keep the lad busy.

“What are you complainin’ about?” Smythe said. “I’m stuck drivin’ him to a dinner party this evening instead of feelin’ out my sources. Someone might have known something about our Miss Gentry’s troubles. Count yourself lucky, lad.”

Smythe glanced mournfully at Betsy. She smiled back at him. They both knew that when he came home with the inspector tonight, Betsy would have a cup of hot tea waiting for him. If the housekeeper and the cook were safely asleep, she’d have a kiss waiting for him as well.

“I think you could put that time to good use,” Wiggins said.

Smythe cocked an eyebrow at the youth. “Do ya now?”

“If it’s a party, they’ll be lots of people comin’ in hansoms and private carriages. Seems to me you could ask about and talk to some of the cabbies, see if anyone knows anything about that carriage accident.”

“Fat chance, lad.” Smythe laughed. “That ’appened over two weeks ago. The trail’s gone cold, unless it were a paid job, and if that’s the case, whoever did it ain’t goin’ to be talkin’ about it in front of a bunch of cabbies.”

“Besides, of all the things that have happened to Miss Gentry,” Mrs. Jeffries added, “the incident with the carriage really could have been an accident. There are an awful lot of careless drivers about. But it was a rather good suggestion, Wiggins.” She smiled kindly at the boy.

“Will you be going on your own to see Miss Gentry tomorrow?” the cook asked the housekeeper.

“No. If the rest of you are agreeable,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, “I thought Betsy and I both should go. Two heads are better than one, you know. And while one of us is asking questions, the other can be keeping a sharp eye out. One never knows what one can learn by being observant.”