Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (12 page)

And what about this mysterious Mrs. Flurry? Who was she and why was Orlando Edison leaving her most of his fortune? What was her role in this drama? Could she have been the woman fighting with Edison in the mews or perhaps the one who was crying? Or maybe she wasn't either of them. Mrs. Jeffries sighed. She had a horrible feeling this case was going to drag on for ages, ruining everyone's Christmas and Boxing Day.

She was also suspicious about Yancy Kimball. He'd told the inspector he and Edison didn't keep in close touch, but he'd shown up in London shortly before Edison was murdered and he was inheriting a good part of the estate. What, if anything, did any of this mean?

Outside, the sun must have gone behind a cloud because the room suddenly darkened. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed a book on Mrs. Goodge's worktable. Curious, she went over and took a look.
Mrs. Lincoln's Boston Cook Book
. Picking it up, she noted that it was brand-new and one she'd never seen before. She was so engrossed in the book that she didn't hear Mrs. Goodge shuffling up the hall.

“Good gracious, what are you doing here?” the cook exclaimed. She held a bag of flour in her arms.

Mrs. Jeffries jerked in surprise. “I was looking for you and then I spotted this lying on the table. Is it new?”

“It was a present.” The cook dumped the bag onto the worktable. “It came yesterday. I've been so busy, I've not had much time to even look at it. But that's alright; one of the few nice things about aging is that you learn patience. I'll have a nice sit-down with it when the case is over. Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to discuss the case.”

“But it's only been two days,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Surely you didn't expect to find the truth of the matter this quickly.”

“Of course not. But it's already confusing and talking it over with you is always useful. Honestly, I've got the feeling that this one is already ridiculously complicated.”

“You always feel that way at the beginning.” Mrs. Goodge ducked down to grab a bowl from the shelf underneath.

“Admittedly, that's often the case,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “But you heard what Constable Barnes said this morning: We don't know if any of the carolers saw anything and none of us seems to be making any headway.”

Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “Stop worrying so much, Hepzibah. You'll sort it out. You always do. Now, if you don't mind, I need to get busy.”

Mrs. Jeffries blinked in surprise. Clearly, she was being dismissed. “Alright, I'll leave you to it.”

The cook gave her an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, that sounded rude and I certainly didn't mean for it to, but, well, I agree with you, it is a complicated case so all of us need to do our part to sort it out and I've a source coming by soon.” The cook looked toward the window and cleared her throat. “And I'd like to get this batch of scones made up first. Come back later and we'll have a nice long chat.”

* * *

“I'm going to go back to St. John's this evening,” Barnes said as he swung out of the cab. “The vicar says that both Mr. Idlicote and Miss Parsons should be there.”

“Excellent, Constable. Perhaps we'll get lucky and either of them or one of the other carolers will have noticed something useful.” Witherspoon pushed his glasses up his nose and fixed his gaze on the three-story redbrick town house while Barnes paid the hansom driver. “Shepherd's Bush isn't Holland Park, but this seems a very decent place.”

“And it's close enough that it wouldn't take more than ten minutes to walk from here to the victim's home,” Barnes said.

“True, but we mustn't speculate this early in the case. Let's just hope Mrs. Flurry can help us shed light on this situation,” he warned.

“Right, sir, but you must admit, money is a powerful motive and she stands to inherit the bulk of his estate,” Barnes reminded him as they started up the concrete walkway. They climbed the short flight of steps leading to the shallow portico. The house was divided into two flats, each with its own front door. Barnes banged the brass knocker of the one on the left.

They waited a few moments, the constable leaning close to see if he could hear any movement from within. He reached for the knocker again but just then the door opened a few inches. “What is it? What do you want?”

“Are you Mrs. Flurry?” Witherspoon asked quickly. “Madeleine Flurry?”

“I am.” She opened the door wider and stared at them, her expression somber. “And I know why you're here. It's about Orlando, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid it is,” Witherspoon replied softly. Though not in the first flush of youth, she was a beautiful woman with deep, rich brown hair, hazel eyes, an ivory complexion, and high cheekbones. She was dressed in a frumpy, oversized gray jacket and a black day dress with a high collar.

She glanced at Barnes' uniform and then motioned for them to enter. “Please come in, I've been expecting you.”

Witherspoon nodded and he and the constable stepped inside.

She closed the door and leaned against it with her eyes closed for a brief moment. Then she seemed to get ahold of herself. “Let me take your coat and hat, sir,” she said to Witherspoon. “Then we'll go into the sitting room. I expect you've questions for me.”

Witherspoon did as she asked and she put his outer garments on the pegs hanging from the back of the door. She led them down the narrow hallway and into a small sitting room.

There was a fireplace on one wall; two windows with white lace curtains; a nice green, gold, and bronze patterned rug on the hardwood floor; and a tall bookcase filled with colorful china and porcelain figurines, a shelf of books, and a stack of magazines. A green horsehair sofa and two matching chairs were the only other furniture.

“Please sit down.” She waved them toward the couch while she took one of the chairs.

The inspector introduced himself and Barnes. “I'm sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but as you appear to know why we've come to see you, I'm hoping you can help us in this matter. I take it you know that Mr. Edison has, uh . . .”

“Been murdered,” she finished for him. “Yes, Inspector, I'm aware of it. His housekeeper notified me about what happened and it's been in all the newspapers.” Her voice broke and she looked away.

“I take it you and Mr. Edison were more than just acquaintances, ma'am, and I'm sorry for your loss,” he said.

She nodded and gave him a wan smile. “We're old friends.” She pulled a white handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “And he acted as my financial adviser. My late husband left me a small legacy and Mr. Edison managed to invest it well enough so that I won't have to worry about my future. He was very dear to me and I'm going to miss him terribly. I hope you catch who did this to him.”

“We'll do our best, ma'am,” the inspector replied.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Edison?” Barnes asked.

“Last Friday. We had dinner together at Marconi's.”

“Marconi's,” the inspector repeated. “Exactly where is that?”

“It's just off Shepherd's Bush. It's a small, family-run place that both of us enjoyed. Afterward, Orlando walked me home.”

“You haven't seen him since then?” Witherspoon clarified. He noticed there was nothing in the room that hinted she knew Christmas was almost here. There was no holly, no ivy, no greenery or decorations of any kind. But perhaps there had been and, out of respect for the dead, she'd taken them out.

“No. I haven't.”

“When you had dinner with Mr. Edison, was he upset or worried about anything?” He pushed his glasses up his nose and noted that Barnes had taken out his little brown notebook and pencil.

She shrugged and her jacket fell open. “He wasn't looking forward to going to court. I assume you know he was to testify in a bankruptcy matter. But he wasn't unduly upset and he certainly gave no indication he was in fear for his life.” She grabbed the edges of the material and pulled them together, closing up the gap.

“We're aware he was to testify, ma'am,” Witherspoon said. “Did you know that Mr. Edison was planning on leaving the country?”

“Yes. He told me when we were at dinner that he was going to New York,” she said. “The news didn't make me happy, but he was free to do as he liked.”

“Did Mr. Edison say why he was leaving England?” the inspector asked.

“He did; it was the court case. He was afraid the Granger bankruptcy was going to ruin his reputation in the City. He wanted a fresh start in New York.”

“He owned property in New York, didn't he?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“I believe so.”

“Were you aware that you're one of the beneficiaries to his estate?” Witherspoon asked softly. Even though he wasn't good at reading faces, nonetheless, he watched her expression and saw the quick, hard flash of pain in her eyes.

“Yes, I was. When he had the will done, Orlando told me I was one of the major beneficiaries. I believe his cousin is also going to inherit part of the estate.” She lifted her chin a notch. “But I assure you, Inspector, I'd much rather he be alive than dead.”

“I wasn't implying anything untoward, ma'am,” Witherspoon said. “But as you are someone who directly benefits from his death, I have to ask these questions.”

“Benefits?” She gave a short, hard laugh and looked down at her hands. “Believe me, I'd benefit far more if he were alive rather than gone.” When she lifted her gaze to meet the inspector's, her eyes were glazed with tears. “Money doesn't replace people, Inspector, and as I told you before, we were very good friends.”

“Of course it doesn't.” Witherspoon smiled sympathetically. He had the feeling they were a bit more than “friends” but he'd leave that till later as he couldn't see what, if anything, the relationship might have had to do with Edison's death. Both the victim and the lady were single, so there shouldn't be any reason they couldn't be together if they so chose.

“When I last saw him, he asked me to move into his home and take over the household.”

“What did you tell him?” The inspector was a bit confused. He wondered whether this had been put in the dead man's will or if it was simply one of the instructions he'd given his lawyer. Drat, he should have paid a bit more attention to the solicitor.

“I told him I wasn't sure that would be appropriate, but he told me not to be ridiculous, that he wouldn't be there and he wanted someone to oversee packing his things and shipping them to New York.”

“Mr. Edison owned the furnishings in the house?” Witherspoon asked. Neither Mrs. Clarridge nor Henry Lofton had mentioned that Edison owned furnishings.

“Not all of them, but he wanted his files, his books, and what furniture that was his packed and shipped to America. He gave me a list.”

“So you had agreed to move into the house,” the constable pressed.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It was hard to refuse, Constable. He's done me many services over the years and this was the first time he'd asked anything of me.”

“When you met Mr. Edison for dinner on Friday evening, did the two of you walk through Holland Park at any time in the evening?” Barnes asked. He was aware that the inspector gave him a fast, curious glance. Perhaps he should have passed this tidbit along to Witherspoon on the way here, but he'd not had time. But he could tell by the surprised look on Mrs. Flurry's face that his salvo had hit its mark.

“How did you know that, Constable?”

“We have a witness that saw the two of you together,” he replied. He knew that Witherspoon would understand that when he said “witness” he really meant “informer.”

She seemed to deflate into the chair. “Then I'm sure you already know that we were having a terrible argument. That was the last time I saw Orlando and I said awful things to him, things I'll never be able to take back.”

“We don't mean to distress you, Mrs. Flurry.” Witherspoon flicked a quick look at the constable, who gave a barely perceptible nod, before he continued speaking. “But it's important we know what the quarrel was about.”

“Why? It hasn't anything to do with his murder! It was personal. Very personal.”

“You were seen, ma'am,” the inspector pointed out, “and if you were seen together, it's possible your discussion was overheard.”

“But even if it was, it's nothing to do with anyone else,” she cried. “I've told you, it was between us.”

Witherspoon looked at Barnes and then back at Madeleine Flurry. “Did Mr. Edison have any enemies?”

“Of course he did, Inspector.” She laughed harshly. “A lot of men in the City were jealous of him. He was very successful at what he did and there were those that resented him.”

“I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.” Barnes knew exactly what she meant, but he'd found that playing the dullard often got people saying more than they realized. “Why should they resent him just because he was good at what he did?”

She laughed cynically. “Isn't it obvious? Orlando came from nothing; he educated himself by his own efforts and learned decent manners by observing those he served as a child. He was intelligent, strong, and decent and he earned a fortune. Of course there were many in the financial community who hated him.” She suddenly leaned forward and fisted her hands on the arms of the chair. “Orlando wasn't like them, he had none of the advantages most of the men in the City have. Yet he achieved a great deal. Most of his colleagues were handed life's opportunities on a silver tray and they've not done half as well.”

“Do you know of any specific people who might have resented him enough to murder him?” Witherspoon asked. He noticed the more she spoke, the more agitated she became.

She flopped back against the cushion. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”