Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (22 page)

She wanted to think, and doing repetitive, mindless chores helped her marshal her thoughts into some semblance of order. The ideas she had earlier were still very jumbled together and the only way she could sort them out was by looking at the problem logically. She readied the rag with some polish, picked up a spoon, and began rubbing it into the silver.

The first thing to try to understand, she told herself, was why Orlando Edison had been killed. But that was not an easy task. The information—or rather, gossip—they'd heard about the man was contradictory at best. The Merry Gentlemen had originally told the inspector they were concerned that Edison had fraudulently lured them into investing in a worthless gold mine, but the trouble with that point of view was that no one else seemed to think Edison guilty of fraud. None of Luty's sources nor her brother-in-law John had heard any such rumors. Tonight she'd found out that the Merry Gentlemen were more upset about what Edison might say about them in court than whether he'd cheated them.

She put the polishing rag to one side, got a clean one, and began to buff the spoon.

Secondly, there'd been talk that Edison liked married women and Charles Downing had told the inspector that Cecily Downing was one of Edison's flirtations. Downing had only admitted he'd been lying about his wife's alleged relationship with Edison when pressed. But why had he lied about it in the first place, that was the question. Added to the mix was Madeleine Flurry. How did she fit into the picture and who was the father of her baby, Edison or Paul Ralston?

“Are you polishing the silver, Mrs. Jeffries?”

Mrs. Jeffries turned and saw Phyllis in the doorway. She wore a heavy maroon dressing gown over her yellow flannel nightdress and a pair of black shoes.

“I couldn't sleep so I thought I might as well do something useful,” she answered. “I'm sorry if I woke you up. I did try to be quiet.”

“You didn't wake me. I couldn't sleep, either.” Phyllis came to the table and sat down across from her. “Do you want me to help?”

“No, no, that won't be necessary. Why don't you have some warm milk? It might help you get to sleep.” She could hardly order the girl back to bed, but in truth, she desperately needed this quiet time to try to sort this mess out.

“I don't think it'll work,” Phyllis said. “I keep thinkin' about Laura Hemmings. Maybe I should have insisted on her takin' that letter to the police. What if she is going to try and blackmail Paul Ralston? What if he's the killer and he tries to hurt Laura?”

Mrs. Jeffries was concerned about that as well. “You couldn't have forced her to hand the letter over to anyone, let alone the police. What's more, we don't know that a personal letter Ralston wrote to Madeleine Flurry has anything to do with Edison's murder.”

“But she's expectin' a baby.” Phyllis blushed a bright red. “And Edison left her most of his estate in his will. That means that . . . that . . .”

“Edison was the child's father,” Mrs. Jeffries finished the statement. “We don't know that. Mrs. Flurry herself told the inspector that they were old friends. What's more, just because Ralston is horrible to his household doesn't mean he's a killer. And we don't even know for sure that Laura is going to try to blackmail Ralston. All she told you was that she had ‘big plans' for the letter.” She picked up a rag, dipped it in the polish, and slathered it on a second spoon.

“That's true,” Phyllis muttered. “For all we know, Laura might just be plannin' on giving Ralston's love letter to Anne Waterson. That would cause him plenty of misery and I think she'd like that more than havin' a few pounds off of him.” She pursed her lips. “I'm being silly and makin' a mountain out of a molehill, aren't I.”

“You most certainly are not.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for her buffing rag. “And you're right to be a bit anxious about the girl. Tomorrow morning, we're going to make sure that Constable Barnes is fully informed about the situation. But I'd not worry too much: You don't know that Ralston even knows Laura took his letter. When he finds it's missing, he might just think it dropped out of his coat pocket.”

Phyllis relaxed a bit. “Mrs. Goodge says you often come downstairs in the middle of the night when you want to sort out the bits and pieces of a case. Is that what you're doin' tonight?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And now that you're here, you can help me clarify my thoughts.” Phyllis wasn't going back to her own bed anytime soon so she might as well make the best of it. She gave her a quick summary of her thinking thus far. “But I'm still no closer to figuring out the motive for the murder,” Mrs. Jeffries concluded. “The murder wasn't a robbery gone bad.”

“But how do we know that? One of Ruth's sources claimed Edison kept plenty of money hidden in his house. Maybe that was the motive for the murder.”

“True, but if it was a robbery, why would the killer leave fifty pounds in Edison's pocket and, more to the point, why leave the body lying across the doorstep, where it was sure to be discovered? The window of time between the servants leaving the house and the discovery of the body was only ten minutes. Unless the killer knew where the money was hidden, he'd have had to search the house for it.”

“And he or she couldn't have done that in ten minutes.” Phyllis reached for a clean rag and began to help with the silver. “Nor would they have left the dead man lyin' out in plain sight of anyone walking down the road. But what about Yancy Kimball, let's not forget about him. He had a reason for wanting Edison dead. Two of them—one, Edison had cut off his money supply and, two, with Edison dead, he thought he was goin' to inherit everything. They were cousins, so if there was money in the Edison house, he might have known where it was. If you knew where to look, you could nip in and get back out in no time at all.”

“And one of the carolers did tell Constable Griffiths that another caroler claimed to have seen someone at the tradesmen's door.” She broke off, frowning. “No, it doesn't fit. There wasn't enough time.”

“There was ten minutes,” Phyllis pointed out.

“But there wasn't,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. “Not if you really think about it. The servants left at exactly six and Chief Inspector Barrows called the time of death at six ten. But that doesn't take into account the fact that the maid who raised the alarm had to notice Edison lying there in the doorway a good minute or so earlier. Then she had to go back into the house and explain what she'd seen. Barrows had to go next door, then examine the body to make sure it wasn't, as he put it, ‘someone who'd had too much to drink' before he realized Edison was actually dead. At that point, he noted the time and blew his police whistle to summon the fixed-point constable. By my estimate, that whole sequence of events wouldn't have been accomplished in less than three or, more likely, four minutes. Which means the window of time for the murder wasn't ten minutes, it must have been closer to six or seven.”

“I'd not thought of it like that.” Phyllis pulled a butter knife out of the chest and slathered it with polish. “But you're right, there was so little time, I don't see how the murderer managed to do it.”

“The only explanation is that Edison himself opened the door to his killer.”

* * *

But of course, that wasn't the only explanation, but Mrs. Jeffries didn't think of the other possible solution until almost dawn.

Mrs. Jeffries yawned as she climbed into bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin, rolled onto her side, and closed her eyes. Talking the case over with Phyllis had helped enormously. She still had no idea who had murdered Orlando Edison, but she felt she'd made some progress.

She took a deep breath and relaxed. Her mind wandered into that hazy realm between waking and sleep as bits of conversation and ideas drifted in and out of her consciousness. She made no attempt to send her thoughts into any specific direction, she simply let the words come and go as they would. Wiggins grinning as he mimicked Kitty Long's words:
“I had to go all the way up to the third floor of the house where Mrs. Clarridge was airing out one of the guest bedrooms. Mary went to the kitchen to get him some water.”

She turned onto her right side as she heard Luty's words:
“Accordin' to him, Bagshot's investment in the Granger ruined him financially.”
She snuggled farther into the covers as she heard her own words:
“Yet at the same time, he was planning on leaving the country and hadn't said a word about it to the people who would be directly affected by his actions.”

She fell into a deeper, dreamless sleep until the early hours of the morning, when she was awakened by a dog barking. She glanced at the window, saw that it was still dark outside, and resolutely closed her eyes. But she dozed rather than slept. Once again, she let her mind drift into something the inspector had told her:
“Mrs. Clarridge said he'd stayed home that day, that he had some personal correspondence to see to and he'd need Kitty to take it to the postbox.”

In her mind's eye, she saw the inspector sipping his sherry.
“Charles Downing admitted that much to us.”
Mrs. Goodge's face appeared, her expression pleased as punch as she reported,
“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.”

Mrs. Jeffries moaned softly as the images and words rushed through her hazy consciousness with the speed of a steam engine. The inspector pushing his glasses up his nose as he said,
“Oh dear, I didn't mean to sound flippant, not when someone's been murdered. But what I meant was that the victim wasn't the only one with a bronzed shovel. The entire board of directors for the Granger Mine had one—they were given out as souvenirs at their first meeting.”

She heard herself again, only this time, her voice sounded as though it were coming from far away.
“Yes, of course you had, sir, you told me that last night. When you searched his study, you found the newspaper where he'd circled sailings from Liverpool to New York. How silly of me to forget.”
She flopped onto her back as Phyllis spoke again:
“There was so little time, I don't see how the murderer managed to do it.”

“The only explanation is that Edison himself opened the door to his killer.”

Mrs. Jeffries jerked awake and sat up. Despite the cold, she was clammy with sweat and her heart was racing. Of course there's another explanation, she thought. But I'm going to have the devil's own time proving it. She took a slow, deep breath as she saw the murder in a whole new light. She'd been looking at it completely wrong, fooled by taking everything at face value and not looking deeper to see the crime for what it really was.

She got up, dressed, and went downstairs. She spent the next hour drinking tea and thinking about what to do next. If her theory was right, there was only one individual who could have committed the murder.

By the time the clock struck seven, she had come up with a course of action. It would take a bit of luck but if everyone was able to do their part, they'd have this case solved by Christmas.

She heard the cook's door open and a moment later Mrs. Goodge, with Samson trotting at her heels, came into the kitchen. She stopped and stared at Mrs. Jeffries. “You've got that look on your face again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you've sussed it out.”

CHAPTER 10

“I wouldn't quite say that I've sussed it out.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “But I do have an idea. However, everything will depend on a few pertinent details we need to find today.”

“What kind of details?” The cook got a cup out of the cupboard, came to the table, and poured her tea. Samson meowed and headed for the back door. “Let me put him out before we start talking.” She and the cat disappeared down the hall.

Mrs. Jeffries heard the door open and then, a few seconds later, the cook returned and plopped down in her seat. “Alright, what are we goin' to do next?”

“Aren't you curious as to who I think the murderer might be?”

“Of course I am, but I know you'll not say a word until you're sure.” Mrs. Goodge poured a touch of milk in her tea and reached for the sugar bowl.

“You know me too well. It's not that I want to be mysterious, it's just that I want to be certain before I start naming names. As to what we're going to do next, I've got a task in mind for everyone in the household. But the first thing you and I need to do is have a chat with Constable Barnes.”

“Are you worried about the Hemmings girl?”

“Very much so,” she replied. “We need the constable's advice about what to do.”

“We're in a bit of a bind there, aren't we?”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded, her expression glum. “He can't assign constables to go all the way to Clapton to watch the girl and he can't tell the inspector. Even with the constable's supposed network of informers, he couldn't have learned about Laura's possible blackmail plot.”

“Let's put our heads together and have a think. I know we can come up with something that will work.” There was a muffled thump from the back of the house. Mrs. Goodge cocked her head toward the hall. “Good gracious, he's quick to do his business this morning.”

“Samson doesn't like the cold.” Mrs. Jeffries got up. “You stay put, I'll go let him in.”

“Stop in the wet larder and get his sardines. He'll want them for his breakfast.”

* * *

Despite Mrs. Jeffries' best efforts to behave and appear as though this were a morning meeting like any other, she must not have been successful, because within moments of everyone sitting down, they were making comments about the case being solved.

“You know who did it, don't ya. Don't bother to put me off with a fib, I can tell by lookin' at yer face,” Luty declared.

“Luty, really, I'm not at all certain,” Mrs. Jeffries began, only to be interrupted by Ruth.

“Oh, but I think you are.” Ruth clasped her hands together. “You've got that sparkle in your eye that says you've solved it. That's wonderful, that means Gerald and I can spend Christmas Eve together.”

“But you're still coming to Christmas dinner, aren't you?” Mrs. Goodge asked sharply.

A faint blush crept up Ruth's cheeks. “Of course, but Gerald and I had planned to have a quiet dinner at my home on Christmas Eve. I was concerned that he'd have to cancel because of the murder inquiry, but now that Mrs. Jeffries has got it solved . . .”

“It's not solved as yet,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. “I will admit that I do have an idea but we won't be able to put this one to rest unless all of you help.”

Betsy giggled. “You say that every time.” She glanced at Amanda, who was sitting on Mrs. Goodge's lap watching the proceedings curiously.

“Indeed you do, Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet added. “However, we'll respect your rather pathetic attempt to convince us you don't know the identity of the killer, when of course you do.”

She opened her mouth to protest and then burst out laughing. “I don't know whether to be offended or flattered.”

“I'd be flattered if it was me,” Wiggins said.

Smythe checked the time on the carriage clock and then looked at the housekeeper. “Time's gettin' on. What do ya need us to do?”

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “If my theory about the murder is wrong, then I'm sending everyone off on a wild-goose chase. More importantly”—she looked at Betsy—“some of you may have to reveal more than we like to find out what I need to know.”

“Do I need to find someone to look after Amanda?” Betsy asked.

“You can leave the little one here.” Mrs. Goodge stroked the baby's soft blonde curls. “Mrs. Jeffries and I will both keep an eye on her while you're out—and your task won't take too long,” the housekeeper added.

“Right, then,” Smythe said. “What do you want us to do?”

* * *

“The funeral is planned for December twenty-eighth, Inspector.” Mrs. Clarridge's black bombazine dress rustled faintly as she led the two policemen into the drawing room. She waved at the sofa, indicating they should sit.

“The twenty-eighth.” Witherspoon took a spot on the end of the couch. Barnes took the other end and dug out his notebook.

“Yes, it was Mrs. Flurry's idea and, frankly, I'm in complete agreement with her.” She sat down opposite them. “The undertaker has agreed to keep Mr. Edison's body at his premises. He'll bring it in the hearse to St. John's on the morning of the service. Mrs. Flurry said that Mr. Edison wouldn't want the household's Christmas ruined with either a wake or his funeral. But I'm sure you're not here because you're interested in our domestic details.”

“We do have some additional questions,” Witherspoon said kindly. “According to Kitty Long, after luncheon on Wednesday, Mr. Edison was writing a letter in his study when a gentleman arrived with the theater tickets. Is that correct?”

Barnes looked up from his writing.

“That's right. He'd asked me to let him know when Mr. Dempsey got here.” She smiled sadly. “He wanted to come downstairs and hand out the tickets himself. He was like that, you know, he liked making people happy.”

“Was Mr. Ralston here when Mr. Dempsey arrived?” the constable asked.

“Yes, he was in the study. He'd come about five minutes earlier.”

“Mr. Edison accompanied Mr. Dempsey downstairs, is that right?”

“He did. He and Mr. Dempsey waited belowstairs while I went and got the two housemaids. They were cleaning the bedrooms on the top floor. When we were all gathered together, Mr. Dempsey handed the tickets to Mr. Edison and he passed them out. We knew we were getting them, you see, so it wasn't a surprise, but still Kitty and Mary squealed when he gave them theirs.” She pulled a black handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “He was delighted with their reaction. As I said, he enjoyed making people happy.”

“Mrs. Clarridge, how long was Mr. Edison belowstairs with all of you?” Barnes asked. He wasn't certain he had the inspector thinking along the lines Mrs. Jeffries had laid out that morning. She had been adamant that if her theory was correct, certain facts had to come to light, even if it meant shoving them under the inspector's nose.

“I'm not sure.”

“It's important, Mrs. Clarridge,” Barnes pressed. “I don't wish to cause you distress, but can you think back and recall it in your mind's eye?”

“Well, let me see, I announced Mr. Ralston and took him into the study. Mr. Edison looked up and put the letter he was writing to one side. When I left, it couldn't have been more than five minutes until Mr. Dempsey arrived and the two them went downstairs to wait while I went up and got the girls. I'd say we were gone no more than ten minutes at the most.”

* * *

“Why, Hatchet, what a delightful surprise.” Gerald Manley rose from his chair and smiled in welcome.

“Do forgive me for barging in like this,” Hatchet apologized as he crossed the elegant drawing room.

“You're always welcome here.” Myra Manley lifted her cheek for him to kiss and waved him into a wing chair. “We're just having morning coffee. Let me ring for another cup.”

She started to rise, but just then the butler stepped back into the room. He carried a blue Wedgwood cup on a silver tray. “I took the liberty of bringing this, madam,” he said to Myra as he set it next to the coffeepot. “Shall I serve?”

“Thank you, but I'll do it.” She poured Hatchet a cup and handed it to him. “Now, tell me why you're here so early.”

“I'll bet it's something to do with that Edison murder.” Gerald Manley grinned broadly. He was a tall, muscular man on the far side of forty. His dark hair was threaded with gray and he had the kind of bone structure that still turned ladies' heads when he entered a room. He was an artist who still worked at his profession despite the fact that he no longer needed money, as he'd married Myra Haddington, an heiress. Love and marriage had come to them when they were well past the first flush of youth and they adored one another.

“You would be absolutely right about that,” Hatchet agreed.

“What can we do to help?” Myra asked. She was a slender woman with a longish, rather plain face made beautiful by a lovely smile and genuine interest in her fellow human beings. As always, she was elegantly dressed, in a red skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. A garnet brooch was pinned at her throat and a string of gold beads hung around her neck.

“I'm hoping you can give me some information. Do you know Sir Thomas Waterson?” Hatchet had used the Manleys as a source several other times. Gerald knew everyone in the art world and Myra had grown up with aristocrats and royals. They were helpful and discreet, and both of them firmly believed in justice.

Myra grimaced delicately. “Unfortunately, yes. Why? What's he got to do with the Edison case? I can't see someone like him even speaking to a stock promoter, which, I understand, was how Mr. Edison made his living.”

“He's not directly involved, but, well, it's hard to explain.”

“What do you want to know about him?” Gerald asked. “You don't need to tell us any more than that until after the case is concluded. Then, of course, you'll be expected to come to dinner and give us all the gory details.”

“I most certainly will,” Hatchet promised. “There was some sort of a scandal involving Sir Thomas' son-in-law and the Foreign Office? I don't know exactly when it happened and the details are a bit vague, but supposedly, the young man had taken a bribe in exchange for a government contract.”

Gerald frowned. “Sorry, old boy, but this time you're out of luck. I don't remember anything like that.”

“I do,” Myra declared. “I remember it very well.”

* * *

Wiggins knocked softly on the back door of the Edison house. He'd ducked down the side of the building when he'd seen the inspector and Constable Barnes going in the front door. At first, he thought he'd come back later, but then it occurred to him that the best time to have another chat with Kitty Long might be when the housekeeper was otherwise occupied.

The door opened and Kitty stared at him with an expression of surprise. “What are you doin' here?” She glanced over her shoulder to the inside of the house.

“I need to speak with you—it's important.”

“I'll get in trouble. There's police upstairs.” She kept her voice soft and low.

“Come out just for a minute. It'll not take long, I promise,” he pleaded. “Please, my guv'll sack me if I don't give 'im a bit more to write about.”

She looked over her shoulder again and then slipped out the door. She closed it softly and leaned against the wood. “Alright, what is it? But I'm still not saying anything nasty about poor Mr. Edison. He was a good master.”

“I just need to ask you a couple of quick bits,” he said. “You said that Mr. Ralston came downstairs and made a nuisance of himself that afternoon and you 'ad to go upstairs to the top of the 'ouse to get Mrs. Clarridge to give you a headache powder.”

“That's right.”

“How long were you gone?”

* * *

Betsy gathered her courage, told herself not to be a ninny, and then knocked on Madeleine Flurry's front door. She wasn't sure yet how she was going to approach the woman and hoped she'd not have to reveal too much about their activities, but as Mrs. Jeffries had made clear, they weren't going to get this case solved if they didn't take a few risks.

When the door opened, she smiled brightly. “Mrs. Flurry?”

“Yes, who are you?” She stared at her blankly for a moment before her face cleared in recognition. “You're the woman from the greengrocer's shop, the one with the baby.”

“That's right and I need to speak to you. It's about Orlando Edison's murder.”

Her jaw dropped in shock. “What . . . what did you say? You knew Orlando?”

“No, Mrs. Flurry, I didn't, but if you're interested in helping find out who killed him, you'll let me in.”

She said nothing for a moment, then she cocked her head to one side and looked Betsy up and down. “Come inside, please.”

* * *

Smythe took his spot across from Blimpey. “I was afraid you'd not be 'ere. It's still too early for openin'.”