Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (19 page)

Mrs. Goodge's source left the kitchen only ten minutes before the others began returning for their afternoon meeting. But despite having to hurry and make the tea, she was in good spirits. She'd not heard from any of her three colleagues yet, but she had faith that she would and she had had a bit of luck today. It was only a tidbit of gossip, but she'd worked hard to get it.

She put a plate of brown bread and butter next to the scones that were left and waited for the kettle to boil.

Betsy and the baby were the first to arrive, quickly followed by Luty, who commandeered Amanda and plopped her on her lap while Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries huddled with Betsy at the foot of the stairs. Hatchet, Smythe, Wiggins, and Ruth came in within minutes of one another and took their usual spots around the table.

Mrs. Jeffries glanced toward the back door. “Phyllis is late.” She knew it was ridiculous to be worried about the girl—she was sensible and perfectly capable of taking care of herself—yet nonetheless, she was concerned. Perhaps she and Mrs. Goodge had overplayed their hand. Perhaps Phyllis had gone off and done something foolish simply to prove she wasn't neglecting her duty.

“She'll be here soon.” Mrs. Goodge fixed Mrs. Jeffries with a hard stare. “So let's get on with the meeting. If no one objects, I'll go first as I've a lamb stew on the cooker and a pudding in the oven and both will need close watching.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave an affirmative shake of her head, indicating not only that the cook could have the floor but that she'd received and understood her message.

“I had three sources come by today. Two of them were utterly useless and didn't even know that there had been a murder in the neighborhood, but Mr. Megan shared an interesting tidbit.”

“Who is Mr. Megan?”

“He's the builder that came to look at the wall in the wet larder. It's crumbling something terrible and that's not a problem now because it's winter, but come spring we'll have spoiled food if we don't get it fixed. But that's neither here nor there. What is important is that . . .” She stopped as they heard the back door opening and then footsteps pounding up the corridor.

Tearing off her hat as she moved, Phyllis raced into the kitchen. “I'm so sorry to be late. The train from Clapton was fine—it was the traffic here that was so awful.” She tossed the bonnet onto the peg and unbuttoned her coat. “The high street was so crowded with shoppers, I got off the omnibus and ran the last quarter mile.”

“Sit down and catch your breath.” Mrs. Jeffries gave her a warm smile. “We've just started.”

“You can listen while you take off your coat,” the cook told her. “Now, as I was sayin', Mr. Megan's a builder and last week he was rehanging the drawing room doors at a house on Belden Square when the young lady of the house received a visit from one of her friends. The two of them went into the smaller receivin' room next door to have their chat and he couldn't help but overhear.” She paused for a breath. “Now, this is the interestin' tidbit. They were chattin' about Anne Waterson's upcoming marriage to Paul Ralston and both of them were of the opinion that Ralston was a fool for marryin' into that family because Anne Waterson wasn't like her sister, she'd not be loyal to a fiancé or husband if the man didn't live up to her father's standards. One of them said that it was obvious Sir Thomas didn't like Ralston very much.”

“Then why did he approve of the engagement in the first place?” Betsy asked.

Phyllis giggled and then clamped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, but I've seen Anne Waterson and, well, there's no nice way to say this, but she's not very pretty.”

“Looks ain't important to that class of people.” Luty dropped a quick kiss on Amanda's head. “Money is.”

“I expect he approved because he had no grounds for rejecting the man,” Mrs. Goodge continued. “Ralston is well educated, rich, and he's not done anything wrong.”

“What about being arrested during the Throgmorton riots?” Hatchet asked. “Surely Sir Thomas wouldn't approve of that.”

“Maybe he doesn't know about it,” the cook said. “We didn't until Luty told us. Anyway, let me finish so I can check on dinner. One of the girls said she'd heard that Waterson was just waiting for a good excuse to force his daughter to break the engagement.” She got up, went to the cooker, and peeked in the oven. “Go on with the meetin'. I can listen while I work.”

“Who would like to go next?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Mine won't take long,” Luty offered. “I talked to a couple of sources today and, like Mrs. Goodge's, two of mine were useless, but I hit pay dirt with the last one. Accordin' to him, Bagshot's investment in the Granger ruined him financially, but his wife is rich so he'll keep a roof over his head. Downing and Ralston will both be okay, too. Downing's finances will take a hit over the loss, but he's still got plenty of money, and Ralston is getting a big settlement in cold, hard cash when he marries Anne Waterson in February.”

“Cor blimey, if all the Merry Gentlemen 'ave plenty of money, why would any of them want to kill Edison? Seems to me the one with real motive is Yancy Kimball. He thought he was goin' to inherit everything,” Wiggins muttered.

“Let's not make any assumptions yet,” Mrs. Jeffries advised.

“That's all I've got,” Luty said.

“I'll go next,” Hatchet offered. “I spent most of the day doing as Mrs. Jeffries requested, trying to understand everyone's place in the social world of London”—he glanced at the housekeeper—“and I must admit, I've had some very enlightening conversations. Several of my sources seemed to think that despite Orlando Edison's success and money, he wasn't considered acceptable in most social circles, but only in the financial world.”

“Does that mean you'd do business with 'im, but not want 'im to marry your daughter?” Smythe asked.

“Correct, but several people told me they thought that Edison had very deliberately kept himself apart, that he didn't wish to incur social relationships or obligations among what most would call the upper classes.”

“I heard the same thing,” Ruth interjected. “Sorry, I didn't mean to speak out of turn.”

“That's quite alright, I was almost finished.” Hatchet inclined his head graciously. “The only other point I was going to make is that several people mentioned that the world is different now and the old social rules aren't enforced the way they once were. In previous generations, money alone would not give one entrée to the upper classes but that's changed and now Paul Ralston can marry a hereditary knight's daughter and both Downing and Bagshot are members of the most exclusive men's club in London. None of these things would have been possible even twenty years ago.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I'm not sure if this is what you wanted me to find out.”

“It was,” she said quickly. In the back of her mind, an idea began to take shape but then just as quickly evaporated into thin air. “Thank you, Hatchet.”

“My report won't take long,” Ruth said. “As I said, I heard very much the same thing as Hatchet, namely, that Edison quite deliberately kept a social distance between himself and others unless they were someone he wanted to get to know.”

“Like Mrs. Flurry or Mrs. Downing,” Phyllis murmured.

“Not Cecily Downing,” Ruth said. “No one I spoke with had heard even the slightest rumor that Edison had been involved with her. The only woman his name was romantically linked with is Madeleine Flurry.”

“But we 'eard he liked married women,” Wiggins protested. “And we 'eard that from more than one source.”

“Mrs. Flurry was a married woman before she was a widow,” Ruth pointed out. “And some of the gossip I heard was that the two of them were involved before her husband died. But that's difficult to confirm and I'm not sure it's relevant to Edison's murder. I hardly think the late Mr. Flurry rose from the grave to whack Edison on the head with a souvenir shovel. But that's not all I found out. Cecily Downing was on Regent Street at five forty-five on the day Edison was killed.”

“So she couldn't have made it to Holland Road in time to kill 'im,” Smythe muttered. “Not unless she sprouted wings and flew.”

“Your source was sure it was her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She was,” Ruth replied. “And that's it for me.”

“I'll go next, then.” Wiggins told them about his meeting with Kitty Long. He made sure he repeated everything she'd told him. “I know it's sort of bits we've 'eard before, but I figure knowin' more details of the poor bloke's last afternoon can't hurt.”

“Indeed it doesn't,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Again, she felt an idea try to take shape in the back of her mind but she didn't have time to grab the pesky imp and hang on to it. “Smythe, will you do the honors next?”

“My source had a lot to say about Yancy Kimball,” he began. He told them everything he'd heard from Blimpey and, like Wiggins, he made sure he recalled every detail of the conversation.

“And he's the one who had a right pressin' reason to want his cousin six feet under,” Wiggins added. “He's the one needin' money, and that pub he was drinkin' in is less than a five-minute walk to Edison's 'ome.”

“But Martin Bagshot was seen close by, too,” Phyllis reminded him. “And he lost all of his money. He's got a motive as well.”

“Let's not jump to any conclusions yet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “It's getting late and we've still to hear from Phyllis and Betsy.”

“I'll go next,” Betsy volunteered. She told them about the lad that often carried notes from Madeleine Flurry to Edison's house. Then she took a deep breath. This part was a bit more difficult than she'd imagined. But then she told herself to stop being a ninny. They were all adults here. “I got a very good look at Madeleine Flurry today and I'm pretty sure she's going to have a baby.”

No one spoke for a long moment as they absorbed the news. Finally, Hatchet broke the silence. “How long has her husband been dead?”

“A bit too long, I'm afraid.” Betsy shrugged. “He's been dead a year and she looks like she's a good seven months along.”

“I don't understand any of this.” Wiggins helped himself to a scone. “Every time we 'ave a meetin' it gets more and more confusin'. Why didn't the inspector notice the lady's condition? He didn't say anythin' about it.”

“He wouldn't have,” Betsy explained. “She's deliberately disguising the fact that she's pregnant with clothes. Her cloak is new and expensive looking but it's too big for her and I noticed she carried her shopping basket in such a way as to hide her stomach. I only spotted it because she was bent down to look at Amanda's pram and the cloak opened enough for me to get a good look.”

“We'll just have to see what, if anything, this new development might mean,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She glanced at Phyllis. “Alright, it's your turn now. You mentioned the train from Clapton?”

“I went there to have a word with Laura Hemmings.” She lifted her chin. “She's the maid Ralston sacked when she tried to give notice.” She told them about the conversation and as she spoke, her confidence returned in full. “Now, the interesting part is that when Anne Waterson came for tea, she made Ralston try on the new overcoat that was delivered. Laura said she could tell he didn't like being ordered about by his fiancée, but he had no choice. Then Miss Waterson asked him for his old overcoat so she could donate it to a charity and he said yes, that'd be fine, and even offered some other old things he didn't wear anymore. She told him she'd pick up the clothes the next morning. Later, after she'd left, Laura gave her notice and he sacked her and told her she had to go. But she's got a temper and wanted to get a bit of her own back. Before she left the house, she went through all his pockets.”

“You mean she ransacked all his clothes?” Mrs. Goodge came back to the table and sat down. “What was she lookin' for?”

“She didn't go through his wardrobe, just the clothes he was donating to the charity,” Phyllis explained. “He'd tossed them in a corner and she said they were all smelly and damp, but she found ten shillings in one of the jacket pockets.”

“She was stealin' from 'im?” Wiggins asked.

“I think that was the reason she was checkin' his pockets,” Luty said dryly. “And I can't say that I blame her.”

“But she didn't just find money in his pockets,” Phyllis said. “She found a letter and she took it with her. The envelope was addressed to Madeleine Flurry.”

“Madeleine Flurry. Why would Paul Ralston be writing to her?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “I didn't know they even knew each other.”

“Had Laura opened the letter?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Did she know what it said?”

“She knew what it said.” Phyllis took a quick sip of tea. “She was really, really upset about getting the sack. She was working on her linen chest when I saw her today and she needed her last month's wages to buy some sheets.” She hesitated. “I'm not sure I should say this but I think she's goin' to do something with that letter, something that will hurt Ralston.”

“Blackmail?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I think so.” She bit her lip. “Sayin' it out loud, it sounds silly, but when I asked her what she was going to do with the letter, she gave me this funny smile and said she had plans, big plans. Those were her exact words.”

“I'd love to know what it says.” Betsy glanced at Amanda and saw that she was falling asleep. “Luty, your arms are going to be tired, give the baby to Smythe.”

Luty waved him off. “Don't let this white hair fool ya, I can still hold a sleepin' young'un, and I'd sure as shootin' like to know what was in that letter, too.”