Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (24 page)

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for Laura Hemmings. Is she here with you?”

“I told you already, she got sacked.” Enid took a drink. “What do ya want with her?”

Phyllis' stomach tightened as the fear that had been following her since talking to Mrs. Cole got a hundred times stronger. “I thought she was meeting the two of you for a drink,” she explained. “Isn't that why you're here now?”

“We're here because his nibs said we was to go out tonight.” The older woman snorted. “Not so much as a by-your-leave did he give us—he just handed out a few bob and said we were to go and have a ‘Christmas treat' and not to come back before last call. If you ask me, he's got a bit of fluff comin' for a visit and he don't want anyone to see her.”

Enid cackled with glee and raised her glass. “Oh, give it a rest, we're out of the house and that's all that counts. Besides, we'll not see what he's up to, but Miss Carlisle will know what's what.” She knocked back her drink. “We can ask her in the morning.”

Phyllis sat down on a stool, her attention on Enid. “Did he say why you had to go out?” She just knew that girl had done something stupid.

Enid shrugged and raised her glass, waving it at the barmaid. “It's like Cook says, he's probably wanting a bit of fun tonight and he don't want us seein' who's visiting him. Ralston's not a generous man, so giving us a few bob and chucking us out of the house wasn't because he wanted to give us a Christmas treat.”

Phyllis jumped to her feet and rushed to the door. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she couldn't stay here and do nothing.

“Hey,” Enid cried. “Where you goin'? Stay and have a drink.”

* * *

“We can't wait any longer for Phyllis. We've got to start now.” Mrs. Jeffries shifted uneasily.

“I don't like this.” Wiggins glared at the clock. “She's over a half hour late.”

“I don't like it, either, but I'm sure she'll be here soon. Now, why don't you tell us what you found out?”

“I managed to speak to Kitty and she confirmed that Ralston was alone in the hallway belowstairs for a good ten minutes.” He looked at the housekeeper. “And I think I figured out why that's important.”

“Of course you did.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock again. “By now I'm sure all of you have guessed. Nonetheless, let's go over this calmly and logically. That's the only way I can understand it in my own mind.”

“How about the other maid?” Luty asked. “She only had to go to the kitchen to get the water and the spoon for him to mix the powder.”

“I asked Kitty about that. She said that when Mary brought the water out, it was on a silver tray and they're kept in the butler's pantry two flights up, so Mary had to go upstairs, too.”

“And the key to the tradesmen's door was right there, nice and easy for him,” Mrs. Goodge added. “He'd have had plenty of time to unlock the door.”

“Kitty also told me that Mrs. Clarridge checks the door at night when she's locking up, but not during the day, as it's supposed to be locked up after every delivery. But there weren't any deliveries that afternoon.”

“Yes, I see, it's all coming together now,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Again, she looked at the clock. Where was Phyllis? Why wasn't she here? “Alright, Smythe, how did you do today?”

Smythe had caught the tension building around the table. He'd decided that as soon as the meeting was over, he was going on the hunt. “My source confirmed the rumor about a cash stash in Edison's house, but that's not all I found out.” He told them about the disappearance of Yancy Kimball. “And I can't figure whether Kimball took off to avoid Gedigan or whether it's more than that,” he concluded.

Mrs. Jeffries' heart plummeted to her toes. “Oh, my Lord, what if I'm wrong? What if Kimball is the killer?” She bit her lip and looked at the coachman. “As you've pointed out, he was Edison's cousin, they'd known one another all their lives, and he might be the one person who did know where any money Edison had stashed might be hidden.”

“No, he's not,” Betsy interjected. “Madeleine Flurry knew where the money was hidden. She told me so today.”

* * *

The drapes at the Ralston house were tightly drawn, but Phyllis could see light seeping out of the edges of the window. An icy wind slammed into her and she shivered, but whether it was from fear or cold, she didn't know. Nor did she know what to do next. She stood on the pavement staring at the house. She knew Laura was inside, she just knew it. But what if she were wrong, what if she summoned a policeman and the girl wasn't there? Then what? She'd not only look a fool, she'd ruin everything Mrs. Jeffries and the household had worked for all these years.

But if she didn't call a policeman, Ralston was going to kill Laura and she couldn't live with that.

Think, you ninny, she told herself. Stop and think. What's the first thing you need to do? You need to find out if Laura's in there. Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing returned to normal as a great calm came over her. She turned and looked at the house across the road, at number 11, where there was a Miss Carlisle, the housekeeper who knew, heard, and saw everything in the neighborhood.

* * *

“Mrs. Flurry also said she'd only met Paul Ralston one time and that was at a dinner party.” Betsy cocked her head toward the cook's quarters, listening for any sign her daughter might be waking up.

“Do you believe she was telling the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Under the table, she clenched her hands together to keep them from trembling. She was going to wring Phyllis' neck when she saw the girl.

“I do.” Betsy relaxed as she heard nothing but blessed silence from the cook's chambers. “Once she realized I was trying to help find Edison's killer she talked freely. She and Orlando Edison were in love. He's the father of her baby. If he'd not been killed, they were going to get married.”

“Was she the one he was overheard arguing with?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Betsy nodded. “Yes, she got very upset when he told her he was sailing for New York as soon as his testimony was finished. They quarreled because she wanted him to stay until after the baby was born but he refused and she lost control of her tongue and said all sorts of nonsense she didn't mean. But she didn't break off the engagement.”

“Did she say anything about a letter? Was she the one he was writing to on the day he died?” Mrs. Jeffries held her breath as she waited for Betsy's reply. This was the crux of her theory. If she was wrong, then she had no idea who the killer might be.

“No, she's received nothing from him.”

* * *

“Thanks ever so much,” Phyllis said to Miss Carlisle. “I'll go along and have a quick word with her, then. You've been a great help.”

“I do hope your friend gets her position back,” Miss Carlisle said. “A broken engagement is heartbreaking. Laura is lucky she's got a friend like you. It's nice that you've come to go home with her. Mind you girls be careful, it's already dark out.”

The housekeeper, a stout woman with an easy smile and a sharp eye, had been very willing to talk. All Phyllis had had to do was come up with an outrageous lie. Namely, that her dear friend Laura's fiancé had run off with another woman and Laura had come back to the Ralston home to try to get her job back.

“We will,” she promised. Knowing that Miss Carlisle was watching, she hurried down the steps and crossed the road. She ducked behind a hansom that had just pulled up and then went down the side of the house toward the servants' entrance. She'd found out what she needed to know. Laura was inside with Paul Ralston. Alone.

She slowed down when she could no longer be seen from across the street. She moved gingerly, taking care to be quiet. Phyllis wasn't sure what to do now. She stopped, thinking she heard voices from the front of the house, but just then a four-wheeler went past making enough noise to wake the dead. She continued moving. She couldn't just bang on the door and demand to know what was going on, that could be disastrous. Laura might just be inside chatting with the man.

She stopped at the first window. The curtains along here hadn't been drawn, but unfortunately she was an inch too short to see inside the house. She tried leaping up, but that didn't work and she was afraid the noise of her thumping the ground would alert Ralston.

She looked around, hoping to find something to stand on so she could peek inside. By now it was dark and the light from the house was so feeble she could barely see. But she wasn't going to give up. She tiptoed the length of the pathway looking for something she could use to stand on and finally spotted a circle of bricks around a flower bed by the back gate. Dropping to her knees, she pried four of them out of the hardened ground.

It took two trips to get them under one of the windows, but she finally managed it, stepped on the double-stacked bricks, and looked into the house. All she saw was an empty drawing room. Taking into account that this side of the house had at least three windows, she moved quietly to the next one, set the bricks up again, and looked inside. “Oh misery,” she muttered as she stared at an empty dining room. But she'd not come this far to give up, so she moved once again, this time to the last window, stood on the bricks, and looked.

She gasped, her breath caught in her throat and her heart suddenly racing like a steam engine. Oh, dear Lord, what was she going to do?

* * *

“My source confirmed the rumor about Sir Thomas Waterson,” Hatchet said. “He did disinherit his daughter. He's not seen or spoken to her since the scandal five years ago.”

“But the scandal was hushed up,” Ruth said. “The only thing she was guilty of was sticking by her husband. There were only rumors about what happened, so why did it matter to him so much?”

“Sir Thomas is one of those people who appear to be guided not by what society thinks of them, but by their own inner sense of right, wrong, and duty,” Hatchet explained. “Apparently, he considered that his daughter violated this code when she chose to stay with her husband rather than come home to him. It may have been hushed up, but Arthur Canning did take a bribe and the fact that the government managed to keep it quiet so that a scandal was averted meant nothing to Waterson.”

“He's considered a bit of a self-righteous fanatic who appears to think no one can live up to his standards,” Ruth added. “My source confirmed that Waterson didn't like Ralston and was more or less looking for a reason to separate him from Anne. So what does this mean? Is Ralston our killer?”

Mrs. Jeffries was too worn out worrying about Phyllis to fob them off with a denial. They were all intelligent, intuitive people and they'd come to the same conclusion she had. “Yes, I think so. But unless the constable has managed to lead the inspector along the same path of inquiry as ourselves, we can't prove it. The evidence against Ralston is only a matter of circumstance, not fact.”

Smythe looked at the housekeeper. Her shoulders drooped and her expression was clouded. “You sent Phyllis to Clapton to talk to Laura Hemmings and now you're worried about her, ain't ya.”

“I've a terrible feeling that something unexpected might have happened and that poor girl might bear the brunt of my bad judgment.”

“Right.” He shoved his chair back from the table. He looked at Hatchet and then Wiggins. “Then there's only one thing to do. We'll go and find her.”

“Can I come, too?” Luty pleaded. “I've got my peacemaker out in the carriage.”

“When did you put that there?” Hatchet glared at his employer as he got up. “Madam, you know how dangerous that weapon is and you promised me you'd leave it locked in the gun case.”

“It was in the gun case until I took it out today,” she replied with a shrug. “But it's there if you need it. I hid it under the seat.”

“Are we going to Clapton or the Ralston house?” Wiggins hurried to the coat tree and grabbed his jacket.

Smythe looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “You tell me, where do you think she's got to by now?”

CHAPTER 11

The day had faded into evening and a cold, sharp wind
blew in from the river. Barnes' knees ached, his back hurt, and he wasn't sure his careful questions or comments had done anything to lead the inspector in the right direction. What was more, as the day had worn on he'd begun having doubts. Mrs. Jeffries had an enviable record of being right but no one was perfect. What if the sequence of events she'd laid out for him that morning was missing one pertinent detail, one little thing that she'd overlooked? Something that looked inconsequential but that might have led the investigation in a completely different direction.

They had just left the Edison house but Barnes didn't know if they were going to call it a day and go home or keep at it. He glanced at the inspector. Witherspoon stood on the bottom step staring off into the distance with an intense, thoughtful expression on his face. “Inspector, should I nip out and find us a hansom?”

Witherspoon jerked slightly. “Are you dreadfully tired, Constable?”

“I'm fine, sir.”

“Then let's go to the Ralston house.” He headed toward the street. “I've a number of things I'd like to ask him and, more importantly, I feel I've been remiss by not speaking with his servants.”

* * *

Phyllis steeled herself, opened her eyes, and looked again. Laura Hemmings was on the floor. Dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse, she lay on her left side with her right arm draped over her torso and her hand resting on the floor. There was a bloody wound on her temple and more blood on the carpet beneath her head.

Bile rose in Phyllis' throat but she fought it down. Laura was dead—the silly girl had come here thinking she was dealing with an unfaithful fiancé and hadn't realized until it was too late that the man was a killer.

From the house, she thought she heard voices again but her breathing was so loud, she couldn't be sure. She concentrated on the scene before her. A gas lamp by the closed door illuminated the room, which was small but decorated in the cheerful yellows and pinks of a morning room. She'd have to testify to this awful moment in a court of law and she was determined that Paul Ralston would pay for what he'd done, so she took her time and committed every detail to memory. Her gaze scanned the unlighted fireplace and she drew a quick breath. A miniature shovel, its end darkened by something she was sure was blood, rested next to the metal rack holding the fireplace implements.

She'd started to get down when she saw Laura's fingers move. She went still, staring at the prone figure and hoping against hope that she wasn't seeing things. But she wasn't; Laura's hand moved again and she rolled onto her back.

Phyllis fought off a wave of panic. Oh, dear Lord, the girl was still alive. But what could she do? She had to get help. Then she heard voices from inside the house. Someone was here, someone had come, that was why Ralston had left Laura alone.

What should she do? Whimpering softly, she started up the walkway. If there was someone inside, then regardless of what it might cost the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens, she was going to raise the alarm. She was almost at the end when she slammed to a halt as two figures stepped into the darkened walkway.

* * *

Barnes' senses were on full alert before they even climbed the short set of steps to Ralston's front door. As he'd paid the hansom driver, he'd spotted a familiar carriage race past them. He'd recognized it right away because of the fancy brass and gold headlamps on the front; it belonged to Luty Belle Crookshank. He'd dallied behind the inspector, keeping his eye on the vehicle as it pulled to the curb at the end of the street.

Witherspoon, who by this time was a good fifteen feet ahead of him, had already reached Ralston's door. He glanced at Barnes and then banged the knocker.

Ralston himself answered. He frowned when he saw who was on his doorstep. “I'm afraid it's not convenient just now, Inspector.” He was dressed in a white shirt open at the collar and a pair of trousers. “I've a dinner engagement in a few minutes and I'm pressed for time.”

“We want to speak to your staff.” Barnes fixed him with a hard stare. “There's no need for you to be here.” There was something going on here, he could see. Ralston was disheveled, and there was sweat on his forehead and dark spots on his white shirt.

“My servants are gone. I gave them the night off.” He started to close the door but the constable slapped his hand flat against the wood and kept it open.

Ralston's mouth gaped open in shock. “How dare you!” he sputtered. “This is a private house!”

Witherspoon edged forward. “Mr. Ralston, we'll not take up much of your time, but if you refuse to speak with us, I'm afraid I'll have to post constables here until such time as you are available for an interview.”

“That's absurd,” Ralston snapped, but he stepped back and motioned for them to come inside. “I assure you, Inspector, your superiors will hear of this impertinence.”

They stood in the foyer. Ralston crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them expectantly. “Well, go ahead, let's get this over with.”

“May we go into your drawing room and sit down?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, Inspector, this isn't a social call so you can damned well ask your questions right here,” he replied sharply. “Now get on with it.”

“Mr. Ralston, when you last saw Mr. Edison, it was the afternoon of his death, correct?” the inspector asked.

“You already know that, Inspector.”

“While you were there, Mr. Edison was interrupted by his housekeeper and he left the room for a time, is that right?” Barnes asked conversationally.

Ralston shifted uneasily and glanced toward the back of the house. “I've already told you that as well.”

“No, sir, you mentioned your visit but you were deliberately vague when we pressed you for details,” Witherspoon said. “But that's neither here nor there. How long were you alone in Mr. Edison's study?”

“Two or three minutes, Inspector. He went downstairs to take care of a domestic matter but was back very quickly.”

“That's not true, Mr. Ralston.” Barnes held his gaze. “Mr. Edison was gone for at least ten minutes.”

* * *

Outside, Phyllis spun around to make a run for it, when she heard a familiar voice say, “Phyllis, cor blimey, it's you! Thank goodness. We was worried to death.”

“Wiggins, Smythe.” She almost fainted in relief as she realized the two men were indeed her friends. “Thank God it's you two. We've got to hurry. Laura Hemmings is inside. She's been hurt—I think Ralston tried to kill her. We've got to do something.” She started back down the pathway as she spoke and they hurried after her.

“The inspector and Barnes are inside,” Smythe whispered. They reached the window and he didn't need a stack of bricks to see inside.

“What are they doing here?” she asked in confusion. “How did they know?”

“Blast a Spaniard, what did the bastard do to her? She looks dead,” the coachman said.

“She's still alive,” Phyllis whispered. “But I don't understand what's going on. Why are you two here?”

“Not just us. Hatchet's at the back of the house. He went round by the mews.” Smythe rubbed his hand over his chin. “There's no time to explain everything. Are you sure she's alive?”

“I saw her hand move and I think I heard her moan . . .” Her voice trailed off as an idea struck her. “That's it, that's what we'll do.”

“Right now we've got to suss out a way to get the inspector to find this poor girl.” Smythe pointed through the window.

“We'll 'ave to own up to it,” Wiggins muttered. “It'll be over for us, but we can't let 'im finish her off.”

“No, no, we won't,” Phyllis declared. “I'm going inside. Once I'm in, I'll make sure the inspector and the constable know she's there. Smythe, can you come with me and hold the back door open? I might have to leave in a hurry.” She turned and headed for the servants' entrance.

“What are you going to do?” Smythe hissed as he trailed behind her.

“I'm going to moan. Once we know for sure they've heard me, the four of us will have to get out of here fast.”

By this time they'd reached the servants' door. Phyllis turned the handle and wasn't surprised when it opened. Enid was acting true to form and had wanted an unlocked door so they could be as drunk as they liked when they came back. She'd not wanted to bother with a key.

* * *

Inside the foyer, Ralston scowled at them. “These questions are ridiculous. Your superior will hear of this, Constable. I'm not without influence in this town. My fiancée is the daughter of Sir Thomas Waterson.”

“You've already told us that, sir,” Barnes reminded him. “Now, back to what's important. Mr. Edison was writing a letter when you were there and when he went downstairs, the letter was left on his desk. Is that correct?”

A bead of sweat rolled down Ralston's forehead and onto his nose. He didn't appear to notice it. “He was writing something but I've no idea what it might have been. I'm not in the habit of looking through other people's correspondence.”

Witherspoon's brows came together and he cocked his head toward the back of the house. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” Ralston snapped. “There was nothing.”

“But I distinctly heard something; it sounded like a moan.”

“This is an old house, Inspector.” Ralston moved to the front door and jerked it open. “You've taken up enough of my time and I'd like you to leave.”

The sound came again, and this time it was unmistakable. “Ohhhh . . . ohhhh . . . help . . .”

Barnes moved first. “It's coming from down the hall. Someone's hurt.” He tossed his notebook and pencil to one side and charged down the corridor.

Witherspoon was right on his heels.

“Come back here! Come back here!” Ralston screamed as he raced after them. “You've no right to invade my house, no right, I tell you!”

Phyllis stood against the wall at the back staircase and held her breath. She wasn't going to budge until she knew that either the inspector or Constable Barnes had opened the door to the morning room and seen Laura.

Her heart raced as she heard doors slamming, feet pounding, and Ralston screaming in rage. Seconds ticked by, but to her, it seemed like time moved in slow motion.

“Here, sir,” Barnes called. “There's someone badly hurt.”

Phyllis turned and ran down the staircase, hoping the noise of Ralston shouting would cover her footsteps. Smythe caught her as she stumbled out the door. She started to turn toward the street, but he yanked her gently in the opposite direction, where Wiggins waited. “This way, it's safer. We'll go out the mews and around the block to the carriage.”

They'd reached the mews when they heard a crash and footsteps thundering from inside the house, but they kept going. The three of them were a hundred feet up the mews when the gate smashed open and Paul Ralston flew out. He suddenly stumbled as a foot came out of the shadows, tripping him and sending him headlong into the ground. Ralston bellowed in pain. But before he had time to recover and gain his feet, Barnes charged through the gate and leapt upon his back.

“You'll be sorry about this,” Ralston shouted. “I'm going to make sure you pay for treating me this way. I've no idea how that stupid girl got hurt.”

Hatchet stayed in the darkness against the fence, using Ralston's nonstop threats to cover the sound of his retreat as he edged farther up the mews.

“Save it for the judge and jury.” Barnes kept his knee on Ralston, keeping him flat against the ground while he blasted his police whistle. He glanced toward the darkness where Hatchet stood and nodded his thanks.

Witherspoon suddenly appeared at the back gate. “Help is on the way,” he called. “I've sent the lad next door for the point constable.” He hesitated.

“Go back to the girl, sir. I've got this one under control.”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries paced across the kitchen to the window over the sink. She pulled the curtain back and stared at the empty street.

“Stop frettin', Hepzibah,” Luty commanded. “They'll find her.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” Ruth said kindly. “You're going to wear yourself out if you keep pacing.”

“You don't know that she's come to any harm,” Mrs. Goodge added. “Her being late could have a simple explanation.”

“She might have gotten stuck on an underground train,” Betsy suggested. “That happens frequently.”

“Phyllis refuses to use the underground.” Mrs. Jeffries turned and smiled at the four women. “I know you're trying to make me feel better, but honestly, until I see she's safe and sound with my own eyes . . .” She stopped and whirled back to the window as she heard the distinctive sound of a carriage.