Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (23 page)

“Nell's giving the house her Christmas clean, as she calls it. She's hired two girls to help and they've got the place torn apart so they can scrub every nook and corner. I ask you, who looks for dirt under a sofa or a chair? A wise man makes himself scarce when the women start washin' everything in sight. But I'm glad you come, it'll save me from sending one of my lads to your place. There's news. Yancy Kimball 'as disappeared.”

“Disappeared? But I thought he and Gedigan 'ad made a deal, come to some arrangement about the money Kimball owed.”

“They did, but I don't think Kimball's goin' to keep his promise to pay up. He walked out of his hotel yesterday and hasn't been seen since. He didn't pay the bill or take 'is luggage. Kimball's done a bunk. Once Gedigan finds out, he'll be lookin' for him.”

Smythe frowned heavily. “That doesn't make sense. Why would 'e scarper off now? Kimball's not gettin' all of his cousin's estate, but 'e's getting a nice bit. Why would he go before the ruddy will is read?” Despite Mrs. Jeffries' refusal to name her suspect, the tasks she'd assigned everyone this morning made it clear who she had in her sights as the killer. Could she be wrong? Was Kimball the one who did it?

“Maybe he thought it safer to get out of town before it became public knowledge that 'e wasn't getting it all, if you see what I mean,” Blimpey said. “His inheritance ain't goin' anywhere so maybe Kimball figured he'd steal Edison's money stash and make a run for it before Gedigan got wind that Kimball wasn't the sole heir. Inheritances don't disappear. When things quieted down a tad, Kimball could always send the solicitor instructions about his property.”

“Money stash,” Smythe repeated. “So you know about that? That's why I came to see ya today, I wanted to find out if it was true that Edison kept money in the house.”

“That's the rumor my sources heard,” Blimpey said. “Edison always wanted to be ready to leave in a hurry.”

“But 'e wasn't a crook or a confidence trickster.” Smythe didn't understand it.

“No, he wasn't,” Blimpey agreed. “But he wasn't a toff, either. 'E'd been raised hard and had come from nothing. It could be he kept a stash of cash just to make himself feel secure, you know, like for an emergency. I know my Nell always buys more food than we can eat in a month of Sundays and our larder is always full. My Nell went hungry as a little one and she's not forgotten it.”

Smythe nodded, thinking of some of the odd little things that Betsy did. She always had too many blankets on Amanda; even the past summer during the heat she'd had four coverlets at the foot of the baby's cot. They'd been neatly folded and at the ready. When he'd mentioned them, Betsy had gotten defensive and, after an argument, had admitted that she remembered being cold when she was little and no child of hers was going to suffer the way she had. He'd held his tongue after that but on warm nights he always double-checked that his overcareful wife wasn't piling too many covers on the little one. “No, ya don't forget misery like that,” he agreed. “Most of us dance with them demons for the rest of our lives. Do ya think you can find Kimball?”

Blimpey shrugged. “If 'e's still in the country. But if he's got any brains, he's on the continent by now. Gedigan won't take kindly to being cheated or humiliated.”

“I think 'e's still here. 'E might have gone into hiding, but I don't think he'd leave the country until he knew exactly what he was inheritin' from his cousin.”

“Then I can find 'im.”

* * *

“I think you're right about this, sir,” Barnes whispered to the inspector as they followed Mrs. Clarridge down the back stairs to the kitchen.

Witherspoon wasn't exactly sure what the constable might be referring to, but he wasn't going to let on that he didn't have a clue why they were here or what they were doing. Barnes had been so complimentary about his ability to “see the flower amongst the weeds,” a phrase that he hoped meant that his inner voice, as Mrs. Jeffries called it, was guiding his steps in the investigation of this case. It certainly didn't feel as if he knew what he was doing, but he'd go along with the constable, who seemed to understand him better than he understood himself, to see what was what. “Yes, well, I'll leave the actual questioning up to you,” he replied. “Sometimes it's best if I just stand back and observe.”

“Mrs. Green, these gentlemen would like to speak with you again,” Mrs. Clarridge said as they came into the kitchen.

The cook, a short, gaunt woman with wispy blonde hair tucked beneath her cap, looked up from the mound of dough she'd been kneading. She nodded. “Of course. Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the kitchen table.

“I'll leave you in Mrs. Green's capable hands,” Mrs. Clarridge said. “I've got to get Mrs. Flurry's quarters ready.”

“She's coming right away?” Witherspoon asked.

“Yes, right after Christmas.” Mrs. Clarridge smiled. “We're looking forward to her being here. All of us like her very much.”

“So you've met her?” Barnes asked quickly.

“Many times, Constable. Mr. Edison and she were very, very close. Mary's changing the bed in Mrs. Flurry's room. I'll send her right down.” With that, she turned and disappeared up the back stairs.

Mrs. Green dumped her dough into a bowl, draped a clean tea towel on top, and set it next to the cooker. She wiped off her hands and came to the table. “I take it you'd like to ask me some more questions,” she said as she sat down.

“Yes, ma'am.” Barnes hoped he wasn't making a mess of things and he prayed that Mrs. Jeffries hadn't gone off her head. “Mrs. Green, can you confirm that the door to the tradesmen's entrance is only unlocked when there's a delivery?”

“That's right.” She pointed down the corridor off the kitchen toward the front of the house. “The key is kept on a hook by the door. That way, any of us can open up and Mrs. Clarridge doesn't have to worry her knees going up and down the steps.”

“Was it locked when you left to go to the theater?” Witherspoon couldn't help himself. His reason was beginning to see what his inner voice might be trying to tell him.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I think it must have been. Let me see, we had a laundry delivery that morning, but I'm sure Mary locked it when the deliveryman left. She always does.”

“Was that the only time the door was opened that day?” Barnes asked.

“As far as I know, yes. The grocer's order and the meat order came on the day before, on the Tuesday.”

Mary came into the kitchen and went to the table. She bobbed her head politely at the inspector and then clasped her hands together. “Mrs. Clarridge said you had more questions for me?”

“Don't look so alarmed,” Witherspoon said kindly. He gestured to an empty chair. “Please, take a seat.”

Mary swallowed uneasily and sat down next to the cook. “Alright, I'm ready. Ask your questions, then.”

“On the afternoon that Mr. Edison died, I understand Mr. Ralston came downstairs and asked for a headache powder.”

“That's right. We were quite put out about it. Guests aren't supposed to come down here; they're supposed to ring when they want something. But all of a sudden, there he was, big as life”—she pointed at the corridor leading to the front of the house—“and demanding we get him a headache powder.”

“Did he say why he'd come downstairs instead of ringing?” the constable asked.

“'Course not, and that's not the sort of thing we can ask.” She grimaced in disgust. “But he had poor Kitty running up to the top of the house. I knew he'd need water and a spoon for mixing, so I got a glass of water and then had to traipse up two flights of stairs to the butler's pantry for a proper-sized tray.”

“Where was he standing when you left? Can you show us?” Barnes got up and, as he did, the others rose to their feet as well.

“He was right over there.” Mary hurried out past the back stairs and halfway down the narrow corridor. “He was right here. He said he didn't want to bother Mr. Edison so he'd come down to wash his hands and get a headache powder on his own.”

“Isn't there a water closet for guests upstairs?” Witherspoon asked. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. He looked down the corridor and could see the key to the tradesmen's door hanging on the hook.

“Oh yes, and afterwards, Kitty and I both wondered why he hadn't used it. It's at the end of the front hall. But he was a guest and it wasn't our place to say anything.”

The constable had one more question. “How long was Mr. Ralston alone here?”

* * *

Phyllis stood on the doorstep of the Hemmings' house and slowly turned in a circle. She'd been here for ten minutes now, knocking on the front door, but to no avail. No one was home. As she moved, she surveyed the other houses along the street. There was no activity at the place directly across from her, but as her gaze moved past the house next door, she was sure she saw the front curtain twitch. She smiled. Just as she'd hoped, there was a neighborhood snoop. She hurried over, banged on the door, and wasn't in the least surprised when it opened immediately.

A sprite of a woman, tiny with frizzy salt-and-pepper hair pulled atop her head in a bun, stared at her curiously. “Hello, can I help you?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I'm looking for Miss Laura Hemmings. She lives next door.”

“I know where Laura lives,” she replied. “But no one is home. Mr. and Mrs. Hemmings have gone to Colchester for Christmas.”

“What about Laura?” Phyllis had a bad feeling about this. “Has she gone there as well?”

“No, she and her stepmother don't get along.” She smiled as she spoke. “I think she's still here. My name is Mrs. Cole. What's yours?”

“I'm Millie Barret, a friend of Laura's. Do you know where she is now?”

“Hmm, well, I really couldn't say.” Mrs. Cole put her hand over her mouth as she yawned.

Phyllis wanted to scream in frustration, but she plastered a smile on her face. “Have you seen her today?”

“Of course. I see her every day. She was here earlier, but she's not here now. I think she's gone out somewhere. She didn't look happy, but then she's always been like that, a very unhappy young woman. I can't imagine why Douglas—he's her intended—wants to marry her. She's very strong willed.”

“Do you know where she went?” Phyllis persisted. Mrs. Cole was odd, but didn't appear to be completely out of her mind.

“Why would I know that?”

“I don't know, it's just that it's important I see her and I was hoping you could help me.” Phyllis gave her a quick, apologetic smile. “I'll not trouble you further, Mrs. Cole.” She turned and started to walk away.

“Wait, maybe I do know where she's gone. Well, not exactly where's she's gone, but she had on her good coat and gloves and she wasn't carrying a shopping basket so I reckon she's gone to meet her friend.”

“Which friend?”

“I don't know her name, but it was a lady she worked with before she got sacked. They like to go to the pub together. Does that help?”

“Yes, ma'am, it certainly does.”

* * *

“Aren't you going to speak to Mrs. Clarridge again?” Barnes said to Witherspoon. Despite the cool temperature, beneath his uniform he felt sweat trickling down his back. He hoped Mrs. Jeffries knew what she was about; she'd been very sure of herself, but that didn't mean her theory was foolproof. So far, it appeared she was on the right track, but Barnes knew that all it would take was one overlooked detail to derail the entire train.

They'd finished their interviews with the cook and the housemaids and were walking down the hall to the front of the house. Mrs. Clarridge stood in the foyer, waiting for them.

“Mrs. Clarridge,” the inspector murmured. He looked momentarily confused and then his face cleared as they reached the end of the corridor. “Oh yes, of course, of course.”

“Have you finished, Inspector?” She got his bowler, overcoat, and scarf off the brass coat tree.

“I've one more question.” He took the hat from her and popped it on his head. “Did you take Mr. Edison's letter to the post, the one he was working on after lunch?”

She handed him his coat and scarf. “No, I didn't.”

“Neither did Mary or Kitty,” Barnes said. “And we didn't find any personal correspondence when we searched his study later that night. Is it possible he didn't write—”

“No, it's not possible,” Mrs. Clarridge interrupted. “The letter was finished when I went in to tell him Mr. Ralston was here to see him. I begged his pardon for interrupting him and he told me it was fine, that he was finished and to show Mr. Ralston in. A few minutes later, when I went in to tell him Mr. Dempsey was here with the tickets, he was getting an envelope out of his top drawer. He wrote that letter.”

* * *

Phyllis stood outside the Blackbird Pub and hoped she was right. It was already getting late and she ought to be back at Upper Edmonton Gardens setting up the tea things for their afternoon meeting. Instead, she was standing outside a public house hoping that Mrs. Cole wasn't crazy as a loon and that Laura would be sitting at a table sipping a drink with Enid Carter. She took a deep breath, told herself she'd done this before, she wasn't going to be scared to walk into a pub on her own. She yanked open the door and stepped inside.

The place wasn't crowded. Two men and a woman stood at the bar and only three of the tables had customers. Enid Carter and another, older woman were sitting at the one closest to the unlighted fireplace. She didn't understand it. If Laura had come to meet her friends for a drink, where was she?

She moved toward them just as Enid looked her way. “If it isn't the little private inquiry girl! Come on over and have a drink with us.” She poked her companion's arm and pointed to Phyllis. “She's the one I told you about, the one asking all the questions.”