02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (2 page)

“Mary could read and write?” Betsy asked.

“Yup, that’s one of the reasons we became friends. Mary and I both liked to read. I used to loan her some of my books.” The harsh set of Luty’s jaw softened as she smiled. Then the moment passed and she continued. “But that’s neither here nor there. As I was sayin’, I started to fret over not hearin’ from Mary, so I sent my butler to the Everdene house, that’s the place where Mary was goin’ to work, to check on the girl.
But when Hatchet got back, he told me the Everdenes claim Mary up and quit the day after she arrived.”

“Could she have gone back to her family?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She pushed another plate of buns toward Luty Belle.

“Nah. Mary didn’t have no family. She’d been on her own since she was fourteen.” Luty Belle picked up a currant bun and put it on her plate.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded thoughtfully. “Did the Everdenes say where she’d gone?”

“Hatchet didn’t think to ask,” Luty replied in disgust. “I was thinkin’ of going there myself and seein’ what I could find out.”

“I think you’d better let one o’ us do that,” Smythe said quickly.

“Why?” Luty’s black eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I couldn’t get that toffee-nosed bunch to answer my questions?”

“Of course you could,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “But I’m afraid I must agree with Smythe. You should leave the task to us. If they’ve lied to your butler, they’ll probably lie to you as well. We’ve got better ways of finding out the truth.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right at that. There’s no tellin’ what kind of tales that preacher might make up.” Luty snorted. “Never did much trust preachers.”

“Have you asked the Lutterbanks if they’ve heard from her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Nah,” Luty said grimly. “I knows that bunch too well to bother talkin’ to them. Old Mrs. Lutterbank is as crazy as a bedbug, Mr. Lutterbank is a pompous windbag, Fiona wouldn’t know the truth if’n it walked up and pinched her on the cheek, and Andrew is such a slippery varmint, I wouldn’t trust him to tell me the sun rose in the east and set in the west.”

“Gracious, you certainly don’t sound as though you care for them overly much.” Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head to one side. “Do you think they may have had something to do with Mary’s disappearance?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve seen the likes of Andrew Lutterbank
before. He’s a mean, vicious bastard, and I know he had a right yen for Mary. But she weren’t havin’ none of that. Mary’s a good girl, and she was too smart to risk her employment by prettyin’ up to a no-count varmint like him.” Luty shrugged. “But much as I dislike that bunch, I don’t think they had anythin’ to do with Mary bein’ missin’. From what I’ve heard, Andrew’s walkin’ a fine line these days. The last time he got a housemaid in trouble, it cost him five hundred pounds and a trip to Australia. Nah, he might have had his eye on Mary, but I reckon he left her alone.”

Betsy gazed at Luty Belle sympathetically. “Did Mary have any other friends? Did she go out on her day off with any of the other housemaids?”

“Well,” Luty Belle replied thoughtfully, “she was friendly with Garrett, the grounds keeper’s assistant. But he’s three years younger than her, and she’s practically engaged to his older brother, Mark. But Mark’s away at sea, so I knows she didn’t go to him. Sometimes, I’d see her walkin’ about in the gardens with Cassie Yates.”

“Where could we find this Cassie Yates?” Smythe asked. He leaned forward on his elbows and clasped his big hands together under his chin.

“Cassie’s a shop assistant at MacLeod’s. They’re on the King’s Road. I reckon you can find her there.” Luty Belle shook her head. “Other than those two and myself, Mary kept pretty much to herself. She’s a quiet little thing.” She fixed her gaze on the far wall, and her lower lip started to tremble. “I’m so scared somethin’ awful’s happened to Mary.” Luty blinked furiously and got ahold of herself when she realized they were all staring at her sympathetically.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested gently, “she’s found a…well, sweetheart, and eloped?”

“She’d have let me know,” Luty Belle insisted. “Don’t you git it? Mary and me was friends. She promised to write, to keep in touch. But I ain’t heard a peep from her. And even if’n she decided she didn’t love Mark McGraw and had gone off with some smooth-talkin’ man, she’d have written me.”

Betsy reached over and touched the old lady’s arm. “Mrs. Crookshank.”

“I told ya to call me Luty Belle.”

“Sorry, Luty Belle, Mary may have gone off with someone and, well, been ashamed to let you know about it. Especially, if’n he didn’t marry ’er. It ’appens, you know.”

Mrs. Goodge nodded wisely and Wiggins blushed.

“Nah. Mary wouldn’t have been ashamed. Not with me.”

“On the day that Mary came to you, did you give her any money?” Mrs. Jeffries asked briskly.

“I tried to, but she wouldn’t take a penny. All she wanted was one night’s lodgin’ and a letter of reference.” Luty Belle suddenly stood up. “Are you goin’ to help me or not?” she demanded. “Causin’ if you ain’t, I reckon I’ll have to start lookin’ myself or hire me one of them private inquiry agents. But come hell or high water, I’m goin’ to find out what happened to Mary Sparks.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed around the table. Each time her eyes met one of the others’, there was a barely perceptible nod to show accord. They all wanted her to say yes.

“Of course we’re going to help you,” Mrs. Jeffries stated calmly.

“I ain’t askin’ any of you to do it fer free,” Luty Belle announced. When they all started to protest, she held up her hand. “Quit your caterwaulin’. I ain’t goin’ to insult anyone by offering you
money
. Agreed?”

Betsy’s eyebrows lifted, Smythe looked amused, Mrs. Goodge pursed her lips, and Wiggins grinned happily. Mrs. Jeffries cleared her throat. They all turned and stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak for them. Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t quite sure what to say. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She could hardly refuse Luty’s offer. If she did, she was sure the American woman wouldn’t let them help. Luty Belle was too proud for that. And she knew that if the household lost this chance to do a bit of detective work, they’d all be utterly miserable.

“Um, Luty,” she began, trying to think of a delicate way to
tell her payment of any kind would be rather uncomfortable.

“You look like a gaping fish, Hepzibah.” Luty put her hands on her hips. “Now, I knows you’re all proud as pikestaffs, and I told you I ain’t offerin’ you money. Let’s just say that no matter what you find out, I’ll do what’s right and we’ll leave it at that.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “That will be just fine, Luty.”

They got a few more details about Mary Sparks out of Luty Belle, and then she left. As soon as the kitchen door had closed behind her, they all started talking at once.

“The girl’s probably run off with some man,” Mrs. Goodge said darkly as she began to gather up the tea things.

“Or she could have been sold into white slavery,” Betsy said.

“If the girl’s been missin’ for two months,” Smythe added, “she’s probably at the bottom of the Thames.”

“Maybe she’s gone to America,” Wiggins said cheerfully.

“Really,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You all have most appalling ideas. I’m glad you managed to keep some of those rather depressing opinions to yourself. Poor Luty Belle’s worried enough.”

“What do you think ’appened to her, then?” Betsy stuffed the last bite of currant bun into her mouth and then nimbly got to her feet and took the plate to the sink.

“That’s impossible to say right now,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But we’ll do our best to find out. Wiggins, I want you to get over to Knightsbridge and talk to Garrett McGraw.”

Wiggins’s round face creased in worry as he pursed his lips. “What should I ask?”

“Find out everything you can about Mary Sparks and about the Lutterbank family.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to Betsy. “Would you like to go shopping?”

“Want me to question Cassie Yates, do ya?” Betsy grinned from ear to ear, her blue eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. “I’ll find out anythin’ I can.”

Smythe cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his massive chest. His big brutal face was set in an expression of
feigned boredom, but his dark brown eyes were sparkling as brightly as Betsy’s. “I suppose you want me to go back to them miserable pubs in Knightsbridge.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Mrs. Jeffries replied sweetly. She knew Smythe was teasing her a little. He’d gotten an enormous amount of information on the murder of Dr. Slocum from hanging about those Knightsbridge pubs. For all his complaints, Mrs. Jeffries knew he enjoyed his forays.

She turned to Mrs. Goodge. The cook gazed back at her knowingly. “I expect I can remember a bit of gossip about the Lutterbanks,” she said calmly. “But you’d better give me a few hours. The name hasn’t rung any bells yet.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. Mrs. Goodge knew every morsel of gossip about every important family in London. Like Smythe, she too had come up with some invaluable bits and pieces during the Slocum investigation.

“Are we goin’ to mention the girl to the inspector?” Betsy asked as she pulled on her gloves.

“Not right away,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “We may have to eventually, but for right now, we’ll see what we can come up with on our own. We don’t want to bother him unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

The inspector was kept completely in the dark about their activities. None of them wanted the dear man to think they lacked confidence in his skills as a dectective. “But I will ask him some discreet questions when he gets home,” she continued. “He should be able to tell us if any young female bodies have turned up in the last two months.”

Betsy made a face. She was turning into an excellent detective, but she was really quite squeamish.

Mrs. Jeffries waited until everyone had left and then she sighed in satisfaction. There was nothing like a mystery to lift one’s spirits.

* * *

Magpie Lane had been almost obliterated. Where there had once been a row of tiny redbrick houses, there were now only piles of rubble and debris. The one house that hadn’t been torn
down stood alone at the end of the street, a forlorn shell with no windows and the doors haphazardly boarded over. On the other side of the road was an abandoned brewery enclosed by a twelve-foot wall.

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon slowed his steps as he followed Constable Barnes to the far end of the street. Three workmen and two uniformed police constables were standing over an open trench. “She’s in there, sir,” the taller of two constables called. He pointed down into what had once been the cellar of a house. “We sent for CID as soon as we realized the remains were human, sir.”

“Thank you, Constable.” Witherspoon gulped and studiously avoided looking down. “Constable Barnes,” he ordered, “you’d best see to it.”

Barnes hurried down the ladder someone had stuck at the side. A moment later, Witherspoon’s worst fears were confirmed.

“It’s a body, all right, Inspector,” Barnes called cheerfully. “You’d best come down and see for yourself.”

There was no hope for it; he had to look at the corpse. Witherspoon didn’t like dead bodies. Despite his being a police officer, his stomach was really quite delicate. As he descended the ladder, he found himself hoping that this body would be as tidy as his last one, but considering it had been in the ground, he thought that was rather a faint hope. He was right.

He stopped at the bottom of the ladder, took a deep breath and then walked over to stand next to Barnes. Keeping his gaze level with the top of the trench, he silently prayed he wouldn’t be sick or, even worse, that he wouldn’t disgrace himself by fainting. He took another deep breath and then immediately wished he hadn’t. Now that the remains had been exposed, the smell was awful. The air in the confined space was filled with the sickeningly sweet stench of decaying flesh.

Witherspoon’s stomach turned over.

“Looks like it’s a woman,” Barnes said. He stepped back to give his inspector room. Witherspoon was trapped now. He had to look.

The corpse was lying on its side, the face turned into the flat dirt of the trench. He could see that she was wearing a dark blue dress and that her hair, which had once been blond, was tangled with matted earth.

“Yes,” the inspector mumbled, “so it appears.” He knelt down and held his breath.

“Shouldn’t we turn ’er over?” Barnes asked.

Witherspoon shuddered as he forced his hands to touch the dead shoulders. Keeping his head down so no one would see that his eyes were closed, he pulled the body onto its back.

Barnes made a funny choking noise. “Cor, this one’s bad.”

A wave of nausea washed through the inspector, but he grimly reminded himself of his duty. “Get out your notebook, Constable,” Witherspoon ordered. Perhaps, he thought, it would be best to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Right, sir.”

“Uhmm, well. The body is that of a woman.” He forced himself to open his eyes and then almost gagged. “The face is blacked and bloated. Virtually unrecognizable.”

“Blimey, don’t you want to put a handkerchief over your nose?” Barnes asked the inspector. “She’s gettin’ riper by the minute.”

“No, no, I’m quite all right,” Witherspoon lied. He knew if he didn’t get this done quickly, he’d never be able to force himself back into this hole. “The deceased is wearing a heavy…,” he broke off and tentatively touched the material of the dress, “…wool dress. It’s a dark blue.”

“Any sign of what killed her, sir?” Barnes glanced down at the body, and his lips curled in disgust. “Cor, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Looks like there’s a great big gapin’ hole in her chest. Think she’s been stabbed, sir?”

“Yes, Constable,” the inspector replied faintly, “it certainly seems so.” He quickly averted his gaze from the wound. “We must be sure and have our lads do more digging to see if the weapon is here as well.”

“What kind of knife do you think it was, sir?” the Constable asked cheerfully.

“I really shouldn’t like to say at this point in the investigation.”

“Right, sir. She got a weddin’ ring on?”

Witherspoon glanced at what was left of her hands, then quickly looked away. “Difficult to tell, Constable. But we must make sure we instruct the searchers to look for one. It could have slipped off when the flesh was…” He broke off, wondering just how to phrase the truly horrendous thought. When the flesh was eaten by rats or decomposed or whatever wretched force of nature had caused the poor girl’s hands to be nothing but bones.