02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (24 page)

“Now, let me see if I have this right,” Witherspoon said as he stared at Luty Belle Crookshank. “You sent your butler over to check the date of Angus Lutterbank’s death here at St. Matthew’s, and when he got to the churchyard, he noticed someone had…er…dug it up? Is that correct?” He glanced from the stern features of Hatchet to Mrs. Crookshank.

“Yup, that’s right.” Luty grinned. “Wanted to do some snoopin’ on my own afore I told ya what I suspected.”

“And the grave just happened to be open?” The inspector’s brows rose. “That is a remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” He avoided looking down at the exposed body. Starting his day off by examining another corpse was simply too much. He’d delay that unpleasant chore as long as possible.

Hatchet snorted delicately, and Luty Belle threw him a quick glare before she answered the inspector. “No, I wouldn’t say it were a coincidence at all. But if’n you’re accusing me of sneakin’ over here in the middle of the danged night and diggin’ that girl up, you’re plum crazy. Take a look at me, Inspector. I’m an old woman, and if’n you think that stiff-necked stuffed shirt of a butler of mine,” she broke off and jabbed her cane in Hatchet’s direction, “would have the stomach for minin’ bodies in the middle of the night, you’ve got another think coming.”

Witherspoon glanced at the impeccably dressed, white-haired servant and sighed. Unfortunately, this eccentric woman was right. He couldn’t see either of them doing a spot of grave digging in the middle of the night. But if they hadn’t, then who had? Drat. And he’d thought this miserable case was over and done with. Now he had another body, another murder and the whole horrid business was going to start all over again.

“Besides,” Mrs. Crookshank continued earnestly when the inspector remained silent. “What’s it matter who dug the girl up? She’s dead, ain’t she? Looks to me like it’s murder too. There’s an ivory-handled dagger sticking outa her rib cage. Now, there’s only one person that I know of who’d had a reason to murder the girl, and it sure as shootin’ ain’t Malcolm Farnsworth, neither.”

“I’m sorry,” Witherspoon said curiously. “But I don’t really see what it is you’re getting at. How can you possibly know anything about who took this person’s life? We don’t even know the identity of the victim.”

“Nells bells, man.” She stamped her cane in frustration. “Can’t you see what’s right under yer danged nose? Of course we know who that girl was. Didn’t you see them initials embroidered on that hanky? It’s Sally Comstock. And the only one who had a reason for wantin’ her dead is Andrew Lutterbank. Farnsworth didn’t even know the woman. And if’n you don’t make tracks, that no-good polecat is gonna get clean outa the country. He and his daddy is fixin’ to go to the continent this morning.”

“Gracious, are you certain?” Witherspoon asked in alarm.

“Course I’m certain,” Luty snorted. “Why do ya think I had Hatchet over here at the crack of dawn checkin’ the dates on this tombstone?”

“I beg your pardon?” Witherspoon wished the woman would explain herself a bit more clearly, He was having a most difficult time following her reasoning. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“Well, it’s simple enough,” she explained. To Luty this part of the plan was the weakest, but as it had been the only idea
she and Mrs. Jeffries had been able to come up with early this morning, it would have to do. “Yesterday, when I heard that you was sniffin’ around Farnsworth and peggin’ him as the killer, I suddenly thoughta something.”

“How on earth did you hear that we were asking Mr. Farnsworth to help us with our inquiries?” Witherspoon asked.

“Oh, that don’t matter.” Mrs. Crookshank waved the question aside and started talking faster. “Anyhows, I remembered that when they paid Sally Comstock off, they’d supposedly give the girl five hundred pounds. It was the money in the pouch that reminded me o’ that. Now, I knew Farnsworth didn’t have that kind of cash, so I asked myself how on earth he could have given it to Cassie Yates. Well, he couldn’t, could he?”

“Hmmm…I’m still not quite sure I follow you,” Witherspoon said hesitantly.

“Then stop interruptin’ and listen,” Luty snapped. She’d decided the best defense now was a fast and furious offense. “Then I recalled that my inquiry agent had told me about a bit of gossip he’d picked up about Cassie Yates. Seems on the day that old Angus was buried, Cassie had snuck out that evenin’ and supposedly followed Sally and Andrew down to the docks. Claimed she wanted to say good-bye to her friend.” She laughed cynically. “Knowin’ what I know about that girl, I sure as blazes didn’t believe she were sneakin’ out to say good-bye. Cassie Yates weren’t the kind to git mushy. So I figured that Cassie must have seen somethin’ that night she weren’t supposed to. I reckon she followed Lutterbanks and Sally, saw him kill her with one of those fancy knives of his and then probably sat back and had a good chuckle while Andrew buried the poor girl in Angus’s grave.”

“Good gracious, you deduced all that merely from hearing that Cassie Yates had five hundred pounds in her possession?” The inspector gazed at her in awe. Peculiar as the story sounded, it had the ring of truth about it.

“Well.” Luty shrugged modestly. Hatchet sniffed delicately and then turned it into a cough when his employer’s eyes narrowed. “It weren’t just that,” she admitted. “It were the crooked finger too.”

“Crooked finger?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Yup. Braxton Paxton told me that when he went round to Cassie Yates’s rooms, the landlady said the man who collected her things the day after she was murdered had a crooked finger.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t know why it took so long for me to put it all together. But yesterday, when we come home from talking to you, Mary Sparks said something that reminded me that Andrew Lutterbank’s little finger is bent. Course, then I knew. The man who collected Cassie’s belongin’s had to be Andrew, and then it were clear that he was the one that killed her. But it took me a spell to figure out why. At first I figured he musta done her in ’cause he’s crazy, well—you’ve seen his mother. Reckon madness runs purty deep in that family. But I couldn’t get that five hundred pounds outa my head. I knew it had somethin’ to do with it.”

“Yes,” Witherspoon muttered dazedly. “I see.”

“Inspector,” a familiar voice called.

“Oh, good.” The inspector turned and saw Constable Barnes and three other uniformed police officers picking their way carefully through the churchyard. “The lads have arrived. I suppose I’d better take Barnes and perhaps another one and get on over to Mr. Lutterbank.”

“You’d best hurry, Inspector,” Luty warned. “They’ll be leavin’ the country if you don’t git over there and put a stop to it. And once Andrew is out of England, it’ll be a cold day in the pits of hell before you can git your hands on him agin.”

* * *

“Now, stop that pacin’, Hepzibah,” Luty Belle said calmly as she sat in the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens. “Everythin’ went just like we planned. The inspector is probably arrestin’ Andrew Lutterbank right now.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t suspicious about our story?” Mrs. Jeffries asked anxiously.

Luty shrugged. “He did seem a mite concerned about that grave being conveniently opened. It’s a purty shady story, but I think I convinced him that it didn’t matter all that much how the girl got found.”

“And did he understand the significance of the money?”

“Yep, after I explained it, he did.” Luty took a sip of her tea. “Course gettin’ that part in about the crooked finger weren’t easy. I ain’t sure he really understood what I was tryin’ to tell him. But by that time, I had him convinced that if he didn’t git over to the Lutterbank house and get his paws on Andrew, the boy was goin’ to be gone fer good. The inspector took the dagger with him too. Maybe once Lutterbank sees that the murder weapon can be traced directly to him, he’ll git so rattled he’ll confess.” Luty suddenly looked around at the empty kitchen. “Where in tarnation is everybody? I’d think with all the excitement they’d all be here.”

“Mrs. Goodge is in the pantry. Wiggins and Smythe are upstairs taking a rest,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Remember we did leave poor Smythe to stand guard while I fetched you and Hatchet. Both of them are exhaused. Poor Smythe barely made it in the kitchen door as Hatchet was coming in the front this morning. And oh yes, Betsy’s gone over to Putney to get Essie Tuttle. She’ll be staying here for a few days while I try and find her another position.” She paused and gave Luty a wide smile. “Speaking of Miss Tuttle…”

Luty raised her hand. “All right, Hepzibah, you can save your breath. I owe ya. I’ll hire the girl. Have Betsy bring her on over to my house this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Upstairs the front door slammed, and both women jumped.

“Gracious, what was that?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed as she leapt to her feet. But before she even reached the kitchen steps, a white-faced Inspector Witherspoon stumbled down them and into the kitchen. He threw himself into a chair.

“Inspector, what on earth is the matter?” Mrs. Jeffries hurried over to the stove and reached for the teakettle. “You’re as pale as a ghost. Let me make you a cup of tea.”

“I’d rather have something a bit stronger, if you don’t mind,” Witherspoon croaked. “I’ve had a rather unsettling morning. Actually, I’d like a whiskey.”

Shocked, Mrs. Jeffries whirled around and stared at him. His hair was disheveled, his lips faintly greenish around the rim, and his hands were shaking.

“Sit still, Inspector,” Luty said as she nimbly leapt to her feet and headed for the stairs. “I’ll git the whiskey. Is it in that sideboard in the dining room?”

At Mrs. Jeffries’s affirmative nod, she disappeared upstairs.

A few moments later she returned, holding the bottle in her arms like a child. “Hepzibah, you git us some glasses.”

They waited until after the inspector had taken a few good swallows of the liquid before asking any questions.

Finally, when some of the color had returned to his cheeks, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Now, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Witherspoon took a long, deep breath. “I suppose I really shouldn’t be so upset,” he said slowly. “I am, after all, a policeman. But honestly, I’ve never seen anyone shot before my very eyes before.”

“Good gracious,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “How utterly dreadful. Oh, you poor man, no wonder you came in here looking as though you’d seen something unspeakable. You had.”

“Who got shot?” Luty asked softly.

The inspector took another quick sip of whiskey. “Andrew Lutterbank. Emery Clements killed him.”

“What!” Mrs. Jeffries was stunned. She glanced at Luty and saw the same surprise on her face. “But why?”

“I suppose I’d better start at the beginning,” Witherspoon said. He was beginning to feel better. But then he’d known he would once he saw his housekeeper and got this horrible experience off his chest. That’s why he’d made his excuses and
slipped home, telling the Chief Inspector he’d be back directly after lunch.

“I think that’s probably wise, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed.

“After leaving Mrs. Crookshank in the churchyard, I took the dagger and…” He paused. “I assume Mrs. Crookshank has told you what happened this morning?”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled sympathetically. “I know all about your adventure. You see, I’d already sent Luty a message that I wanted to see her. I was hoping she’d be able to give Miss Tuttle a position, you see. She very kindly came round and told me about the body in Angus Lutterbank’s grave.” She clucked her tongue. “Really, sir, you’ve had a terrible day.”

“Yes,” Witherspoon sighed. “It’s been awful. But anyway, let me get on with it. I took the dagger we’d found in Sally Comstock’s ribs and, along with Constable Barnes and another officer, went to the Lutterbanks’. It was the most amazing thing, Mrs. Jeffries. Remember how I once told you that murderers often confess?”

“I do, indeed, sir.”

“Right, well, Andrew took one look at the dagger and admitted everything.” He flung his arms out in a gesture of disbelief. “I hadn’t even started to ask any questions before he started confessing to two murders. Naturally, I cautioned him that anything he said could be used in a court of law against him but that still didn’t shut him up. Andrew wouldn’t even listen to his own father. Mr. Lutterbank tried to intervene, but he just went on and on. He finally shut up when the butler interrupted him long enough to announce Emery Clements.”

“Is that when Clements shot him?” Luty asked.

Witherspoon shook his head. “No, that didn’t happen till later, till after we’d arrested Lutterbank and taken him into custody. And the irony of it is it was pure chance that Clements happened to come to the Lutterbank home at all. He’d come to give Andrew a bank draft. It seems Clements was the one who’d actually bought Andrew’s cottage in Essex.”

“Clements had bought the cottage,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “But why?”

“He bought it for Cassie Yates,” the inspector said softly. “Unfortunately for Andrew Lutterbank, Clements was in the hall long enough to overhear Andrew confessing to murder. I expect the whole household heard the man—he was screaming at the top of his lungs. But right after the butler announced Clements, he suddenly left, and naturally, I thought he was going because, well…it’s not precisely gentlemanly to hang about and watch a friend get arrested for murder.”

“What happened then, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She took a small sip from her own glass, grimacing as the whiskey burned the back of her throat.

“We arrested Andrew and took him to the police station so he could make a formal statement.” Witherspoon lowered his head and stared at the table. “While we were taking his statement, the door suddenly flew open and Emery Clements charged in. Before I could do anything, before any of us could make a move, Clements pulled out a revolver and fired twice.” He shuddered and drew a long, deep breath. “Both shots hit Lutterbank right between the eyes.”

“Lord, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries whispered. “How perfectly awful.”

“It was,” the inspector agreed with feeling. “Then Clements put the gun down, pushed Andrew out of the chair he’d been sitting in and sat down in his place. That was the worst of it, Clements sitting there talking quite calmly with Lutterbank’s corpse at his feet. He confessed to killing Andrew Lutterbank. He said he was avenging Cassie Yates’s murder.”