02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (15 page)

“What about the Everdenes?”

“Find out what you can about Antonia Everdene’s engagement,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “See if anyone knows how Miss Everdene met her fiancé and more importantly where she met him. And see if anyone knows anything about Cassie Yates.”

“Her?” Mrs. Goodge said in surprise. “What are we wastin’ our time on her for?”

Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “I’m not really sure, Mrs. Goodge. But I’ve a feeling she might be important. She may have seen or heard something that will give us a clue to who killed Mary. Anyway, it’s worth trying.”

“What do you want me to find out?”

“Oh, let’s see now. Why don’t you ask about the facts? Find out where she’s from, what her background is, whether or not she ever left any of her other employers and under what circumstances. That sort of thing.”

Mrs. Goodge nodded, and Mrs. Jeffries headed up to her rooms. She needed to sit down and think.

Inspector Witherspoon wished he’d gone home for lunch. A nice, calm meal with his housekeeper would have been just the sort of activity he needed to get rid of this pounding headache. Instead, he’d gone back to Scotland Yard and heard another unsettling bit of information about this wretched case. Beside him, Constable Barnes shuffled his feet. Witherspoon gave him a weary smile. “It shouldn’t be much longer, Constable. I daresay this house isn’t that large. The butler should be back any moment with Malcolm Farnsworth.”

They were standing in the opulent drawing room of Emery Clements’s home in Kensington.

“Do you think that young Dr. Bosworth knows what he’s about?” Barnes asked. He kept his gaze on the open doorway. “After all, he did admit he wasn’t sure.”

“I don’t really know, Constable,” Witherspoon admitted. “But I’m inclined to take the view that it’s possible. Medical science is advancing further every day, and if Dr. Bosworth thinks the girl might have been pregnant, then we’ll assume he’s correct.”

“But even he said he couldn’t say for certain,” Barnes argued.

“True. The internal organs were badly decomposed, but Bosworth strikes me as an intelligent young fellow.” Witherspoon didn’t need to add that he thought Dr. Potter was a
pompous fool—his constable already knew that.

“But coming to the conclusion the girl had a bun in her oven just from lookin’ at a few bits and pieces of her insides under that…that…What was the name of that thing he was going on about?”

“A microscope.”

“That’s it. Well, I tell you, it ain’t right.” Barnes shook his head. “How could he see if she was expectin’ or not just from looking at her innards?”

“Bosworth merely said that when he examined her internal organs under the microscope, there was some indication that she might have been with child.” Witherspoon shrugged. “It’s not the sort of evidence we could ever use in court, of course. But let’s face it, Barnes, we’re at the point in this investigation when any little bit helps. At the very least, perhaps the pregnancy was a motive for murder.”

“That’s true,” Barnes agreed grudgingly. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s got rid of an unwanted burden by killin’ it. But the whole idea gives me the willies. It’s bad enough to think of some poor pregnant girl gettin’ murdered, but then to have her insides poked and prodded about by some fool doctor, and all in the name of science too.”

“Now, now, Constable.” Witherspoon glanced at the door again. “Dr. Bosworth was only doing what he thought was right. He didn’t have to come to us at all and took a substantial risk by telling us his suspicions. We both know that Dr. Potter certainly wouldn’t have appreciated Dr. Bosworth’s interference. Potter’s notoriously territorial about postmortems.”

“Humph. Not that it does us much good, even if Bosworth’s right. Pregnant or not, we still don’t know who she is.”

They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Witherspoon stared at the tall, fair-haired young man entering the room. He was somewhat overdressed for the afternoon, in a pristine white shirt, dark blue coat, fashionable vest and brilliant crimson cravat. His handsome features were composed in an expression of cautious interest, but the bright blue eyes beneath his long, dark lashes were wary.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said forcefully as he advanced across the room. “I’m Malcolm Farnsworth. My butler said you wanted to have a word with me.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Witherspoon inclined his head in acknowledgment of the introduction. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon of Scotland Yard, and this is Constable Barnes.”

Farnsworth smiled slightly. “May I ask what this is all about?”

“My constable and I have had a hard morning, sir,” the inspector replied, knowing that Barnes’s feet were probably hurting him. “May we sit down?”

“Certainly.” Farnsworth waved a hand toward a settee, and the matching wing chairs. Everyone sat down. “Now, could you please tell me why you’re here?”

Witherspoon reached into his pocket and fished out the ring. He handed it to Farnsworth. “Can you identify this betrothal ring as one you purchased?”

“Egad. Where on earth did you find this?” Farnsworth smiled in delight. “I must say, I’m very impressed. It never occurred to me that Scotland Yard would trouble themselves over such a trifle. Not that it wasn’t expensive, mind you. It jolly well was, but I hardly thought a lost ring would be of much concern to the police. I say, how did you know it was mine? I never reported losing it.”

The inspector shot a quick glance at Barnes, who peered up from his notebook with an expression of surprise.

“Are you saying you lost this object?”

“By heavens, yes. You chaps must be frightfully clever to find it.” Farnsworth chuckled. “I must say, it put me in a decidedly awkward position.”

Witherspoon was disappointed. “In what way, Mr. Farnsworth?”

“Well, here I was, getting ready to ask my fiancée for her hand in marriage, and when I reached into my pocket for the ring, the wretched thing was gone.” He leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially. “You know how the ladies are, Inspector. It was dreadfully embarrassing. Of course, Antonia
pretended not to notice anything was wrong, and I hardly felt like admitting that I’d done something so silly as to lose her engagement ring.”

Witherspoon hadn’t the least idea how the ladies were, but he refrained from saying so. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate. “When did all this happen? I mean, when did you realize it was gone?”

“As I’ve just said,” Farnsworth replied huffily, “I realized the ring was gone when I went to put it on my fiancée’s finger.”

“And exactly when would that have been?”

“Do you want the date?” Farnsworth asked. At the inspector’s nod, he lifted one long, elegant hand to his chin and his eyes narrowed in concentration. “I believe it was sometime in early September,” he answered slowly. “Perhaps the tenth or the eleventh, but I can’t be certain.”

“You can’t remember the date you got engaged, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Well, no.” Farnsworth gave the constable a puzzled frown. “That’s the sort of thing a woman remembers, not a man. I say, Inspector. What’s this all about?”

Witherspoon waited a moment before answering. “Murder.”

“Murder! My God, how dreadful. But what does it have to do with this ring?” Farnsworth gulped and looked down at his hand. As he stared at the tiny band, a wave of color washed over his cheeks and he shuddered slightly. Witherspoon coughed softly, and Farnsworth quickly handed him the ring.

“It was found on the body of the victim,” the inspector replied. He slipped the ring back into his pocket. “She’d been stabbed and then buried in the cellar of a house on Magpie Lane. Do you know the place?”

Farnsworth clamped his hands together. “No.”

“Strange. The property is owned by Mr. Emery Clements. There was considerable controversy over those houses, some sort of dispute about whether a road would be built or a new underground line dug. As you live with Mr. Clements, I’m
surprised you never heard him mention Magpie Lane.”

“Mr. Clements’s company has property all over England,” Farnsworth replied, but his voice was noticeably less strong than before. “I can hardly be expected to recall every little detail of those properties which are causing him difficulties. It happens all the time.”

“I see.” Witherspoon studied the man carefully. The mention of murder had shaken him to his core. Gone was the confident voice and the ready smile. Farnsworth was white as a sheet and was having to twine his fingers together to keep them from shaking. He was hiding something, but what? “Do you have any idea who the young lady was?”

“What young lady?”

“The victim.”

“Don’t be absurd, man.” Farnsworth swelled with indignation. “How on earth would I know such a thing? I’ve told you, I lost that wretched ring on the day I asked my fiancée to marry me. For all I know, my pocket might have been picked! It’s not as if you fellows are much good at protecting innocent citizens from thieves and pickpockets.”

“Exactly where did you go on that day?” Barnes asked softly. “It would be helpful if we knew exactly where you lost it.”

The question appeared to startle Farnsworth for a moment. “Lord, I’ve no idea. Could you remember what you did on any particular day two months ago?”

“I could if I’d just asked a young lady to be my wife,” Barnes replied firmly. “And if I’d lost the expensive engagement ring I’d bought to put on her finger.”

“Well, obviously, I’m not as romantic as you appear to be, Constable. Except for asking Antonia to marry me, it was a day like any other.” Farnsworth leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the marble fireplace.

“Perhaps if you’d tell us how you generally spend your days,” Witherspoon said, trying to be helpful. “Perhaps that would nudge your memory a tad.”

Farnsworth stopped pacing and turned to stare at the inspector, his expression skeptical. After a moment, he shrugged.
“Oh, all right, but I think it’s useless. Normally, I get up and breakfast with Emery. I spend an hour or two after that in my rooms; then I frequently accompany Mrs. Clements on a walk. After luncheon, I generally go to my club or to visit friends. I spend my evenings in much the same way.”

“When do you see your fiancée, sir?” Barnes asked.

Farnsworth looked offended. “That’s hardly any of Scotland Yard’s concern. But if you must know, I see Antonia quite frequently. And I’m afraid this little exercise has been pointless. The only thing I can remember about the day I lost the ring is just as I’ve told you. It wasn’t there when I reached into my pocket.”

“Your fiancée is a Miss Antonia Everdene,” Witherspoon said. It was a statement, not a question.

“How do you know that?”

“Mr. Clements told us,” the inspector replied. “We saw him earlier today. That’s how we traced the ring to you. Mr. Clements identified it as one you’d purchased on his account at Broghan’s. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Farnsworth flushed a dull red and looked away.

Witherspoon gazed at him sympathetically. It must be terribly humiliating to have to obtain a loan to buy one’s fiancée a ring. And then to have that fact become public knowledge. Well, the inspector could understand the gentleman’s embarrassment. He got up, and so did Constable Barnes. “I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Clements, if I may,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” Farnsworth replied. He looked quickly toward the open door. “She can tell you nothing. Mrs. Clements is a very elderly lady, and she’s resting. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. If I were you, I should do it when Mr. Clements is here.”

Barnes and Witherspoon exchanged glances.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right,” Witherspoon said. “Could you give us Miss Everdene’s address?”

“Why do you want her address?” Farnsworth asked in alarm. “I tell you Antonia knows nothing of this murder. I won’t have you bothering her with such nonsense!”

“Murder is hardly nonsense,” the inspector replied softly. “And I assure you, sir, we will do our best not to upset Miss Everdene.”

Farnsworth sighed. “All right, if it’s absolutely necessary. But I must warn you, Antonia’s very delicate. She lives at number 3 Harcourt Lane, in Putney.”

The inspector thought of the young woman who’d lain buried in a dark, dirty cellar for two months. Perhaps she’d been a delicate woman too, yet no one seemed overly concerned with her.

“Perhaps Miss Everdene can recall the exact date you proposed to her,” Barnes interjected with a sly smile. “As you said, Mr. Farnsworth, that’s the sort of thing a woman remembers.”

* * *

The inspector had just finished telling Mrs. Jeffries the details of his day when she hastily excused herself to answer the front door.

A few moments later, he stifled a groan as his housekeeper returned, followed by Luty Belle Crookshank. He’d been so looking forward to eating his dinner in peace.

“Howdy, Inspector,” Luty said. “Now don’t you be frettin’ that I’m gonna take a lot of your time. I jes needs to have a quick word about that body you found in Magpie Lane.”

“Please sit down, Mrs. Crookshank,” Witherspoon responded as he leapt up and ushered the elderly lady to his favorite chair. “It’s always a pleasure to see you,” he lied gallantly, not wanting to hurt the dear lady’s feelings. “And don’t worry about taking my time—I’m not in the least concerned about how much of my time you need. Now, what’s all this about?”