Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (25 page)

“Is it them?” Mrs. Goodge asked as the housekeeper peered out the curtains again. “Yes, it's them—oh, thank goodness, Phyllis is with them.” Mrs. Jeffries sagged in relief and sent up a short, silent, but heartfelt prayer of thanks. She didn't think she'd ever been so happy to see someone as she was now. If anything had happened to the maid, she'd never have forgiven herself. What the others didn't understand was that she was the one who'd encouraged Phyllis to get involved in the inspector's cases. The maid had been scared, frightened first of losing her position if the inspector found out what they were up to, and second, anxious about her abilities to contribute. “I'm going to let them in the front.” She hurried upstairs and opened the door.

“I'm so sorry to have worried everyone,” Phyllis cried as she came face-to-face with Mrs. Jeffries. “But it couldn't be helped.”

“Come in quickly and tell me all about it,” the housekeeper said. “Hurry, the inspector will be home soon.”

“No, he won't.” Smythe grinned broadly. “He'll be at the station for a few hours. He's just arrested Paul Ralston.”

“For Edison's murder?”

“We're not sure.” Hatchet swept off his hat as he stepped into the house. “But I certainly hope so.”

“Then why is he being arrested?”

“'E tried to murder Laura Hemmings,” Wiggins explained. He jerked his thumb at Phyllis. “But that one figured out a way to make sure 'e didn't get away with it.”

She ushered them downstairs. Mrs. Goodge and Betsy had made fresh tea and Luty and Ruth were at the table. Amanda had fallen asleep and been put to bed in the cot in Mrs. Goodge's room.

“It's about time you got back,” Luty exclaimed when they clambered into the room. “We was gettin' worried.”

“Wait'll you 'ear what happened.” Wiggins tossed his jacket onto the back of his chair and sat down. “You'll never believe it, but our Phyllis 'ere is a 'eroine.”

“Don't be daft, Wiggins, I didn't do much at all,” she scoffed, but her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled.

“Everyone sit down,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. She put a plate of roast beef sandwiches and a bowl of pickled eggs on the table. Betsy, who was right behind her, carried a seedcake that she placed next to the teapot. “We'll eat and talk, and do it fast before the inspector gets home.”

“He'll be a while yet.” Hatchet slipped off his overcoat and hung it on the coat tree along with his hat and scarf. “Paul Ralston is under arrest.”

“Thank goodness.” The cook laughed. “Then the inspector will not be annoyed that I only had a bit of steak for his supper. Everyone take off your coats, sit down, and tell us what's happened.”

They did as directed and soon everyone was at their places helping themselves to food and in general just being grateful they were together and unharmed. Though it hadn't been discussed, they all sensed that the case had come to a satisfactory conclusion.

Mrs. Jeffries waited till everyone had time to eat a few bites before she looked at Phyllis. “You go first. Tell us what happened today.”

Phyllis swallowed the last of her sandwich. “It started out simple enough. I went off to Clapton with the intention of asking Laura how the letter was folded when she dug it out of Ralston's pocket.” She grinned. “It took me a while to figure out why you wanted to know that particular detail, but I finally understood.”

“I don't,” Wiggins complained.

“She wanted to know if it was folded or stuffed in the pocket,” Phyllis explained. “Because if it was stuffed, that meant it wasn't his letter, he stole it from Orlando Edison. You don't stuff a letter you're going to post in your pocket like it's a used handkerchief. But I couldn't ask her about it because she was gone when I got there.” She told them about her encounter with Mrs. Cole and her trek across town to the Blackbird Pub. “But when I got there and Enid and the Ralston cook said that he'd sent them off for the evening, I got worried that she was there and trying to blackmail Ralston.” She turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “I thought about coming here for help, but I had this feeling that I had to get there fast. I don't know how to explain it.”

“Don't try,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You trusted your instincts and, in the process, you saved her life. Go on, tell us the rest of it.”

“I hope she's going to be alright,” Phyllis said. “But she was still unconscious when we left.” She told them about how she'd peeked in the window and spotted Laura. “I couldn't believe it when Smythe and Wiggins showed up, and I almost cried in relief when I found out the inspector and Barnes were already inside the house.”

“It was Mrs. Jeffries that sent us there to look for ya,” Smythe interjected.

“And Mrs. Jeffries told the constable this morning what she suspected happened when Edison was killed. I imagine that he helped get the inspector thinking along those lines and that's why he went to the Ralston house,” Mrs. Goodge said to the maid. “But go on, tell us the rest.”

Phyllis continued with her narrative, pausing self-consciously when she got to the part where she went into the back hall and moaned loud enough to get the inspector's attention. “I thought that Ralston would keep them at the front of the house,” she said. “But I knew that if the inspector or Constable Barnes heard someone moaning and crying for help, they'd search till they found her no matter what kind of shenanigans or excuses Ralston might come up with. And they did. Once we knew they'd seen her, we slipped out through the mews so no one would see us.” She grinned at Hatchet. “You were the hero for this part, so you tell them the rest.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” Luty cried. “He got to have some fun.”

“Don't be absurd, madam, Miss Phyllis is being kind. All I did was stick out my foot and trip Ralston when he tried to make his escape.” But he bowed to their pleas and told them what had happened. “After that, we hurried back here as quickly as possible. But what I don't understand is, how did Mrs. Jeffries determine that Ralston was the killer?”

Everyone looked at her. “Well, are you goin' to tell us or not? Come on, Hepzibah, spill the beans,” Luty demanded. “Sendin' us all out to find out the little bits and pieces that pointed at Ralston was clever, but what we want to know is how you knew to put yer sights on him in the first place.”

“It wasn't a matter of cleverness at all,” she protested. She reached for the teapot and poured another cup. “It was simply that I suddenly realized we were getting nowhere and I understood that the only way to get the case solved was to look at it from an entirely different angle.” She added a touch of milk to the cup. “The first thing I asked myself was who really benefited from his death.”

“Madeleine Flurry and Yancy Kimball,” Phyllis murmured. “They're both inheriting his estate.”

“True, but if you think about it, both of them would benefit far more if he were alive.” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to a spoonful of sugar.

“That's true of Mrs. Flurry,” Betsy said quickly. “She and Edison were in love and they were going to get married.”

“But they 'ad a row,” Wiggins pointed out. “'E was leavin' her.”

“All couples row,” Betsy insisted. “And he wasn't leaving her. She was going to join him in New York after the baby was born. Why do you think he arranged for her to live in his house? Edison didn't want her living alone with him out of the country. He wanted her looked after by people he trusted.”

“That explains why he left instructions with his lawyer for the staff to stay on until the end of March,” Ruth said. “Will the baby be born by then?”

Betsy nodded. “The little one is due at the end of January.”

“Right, then, so that puts Mrs. Flurry out of the runnin' for bein' the killer. What about Kimball?” Smythe asked. “Edison 'ad cut off his money supply but left 'im an inheritance, so why wouldn't he want his cousin dead?”

“That's simple. Kimball was a professional gambler, not a part-time card player but someone who made his living with cards,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I'm not expert on how gamblers view the world, but it has been my observation that they are very superstitious. Their world revolves around a throw of the dice or the turn of a card. I don't think Kimball would risk a prolonged run of bad luck by committing the murder of his only living family member.”

“But gamblers have killed before,” Smythe argued. “I was in a game in Sydney and it took three of us to keep Billy Harold from killing a Frenchman we caught cheatin'.”

“But that was in the heat of the moment and, furthermore, I'll wager that Billy Harold wasn't a professional gambler,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “Kimball is.”

“Luck be my lady, luck be my friend, give me good winnings again and again,” Luty chanted. “That's a gamblers' sayin', and Mrs. Jeffries is right, the pros are always worried about gettin' on the wrong side of Lady Luck.”

“Or the goddess Fortune,” Hatchet added. “Alright, we can see how you eliminated those two from your list of suspects. But what about the Merry Gentlemen? Why did you focus on Ralston and not one of the other two?”

“Because once I thought about it logically, Ralston was the only one with a motive. Furthermore, he was the only one who could have done it.”

“Why was he the only one who could have done it?” Ruth asked. “The other two didn't have decent alibis—they could have easily come back that evening and murdered Edison.”

“But only Ralston knew two important things,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “First, he knew the house was going to be empty. He was with Edison when Mr. Dempsey came with the theater tickets so he knew he could get in and out without getting caught by the servants. Second, he was the only one of the three that knew Edison was leaving for New York right after he testified in the bankruptcy hearing, and the murderer wanted Edison dead and not on a ship for America.”

“How did he know Edison was goin'?” Luty asked. “Seems like the only people he told were his cousin, Mrs. Flurry, and Henry Lofton, his lawyer.”

“He found out because he read Edison's letter to Mrs. Flurry,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “At least, that's what I think must have happened—we'll know for certain if Laura Hemmings had the letter with her when she went to see Ralston tonight and it's now in the possession of the police.”

“'Ow many letters are there?” Wiggins smiled sheepishly. “I think I know but I'm a bit confused.”

“There was only one,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “The one Edison wrote to Madeleine Flurry. My theory is that Ralston read the letter when he was alone in Edison's study and the letter not only said that Edison was leaving the country, but it also contained something else that Ralston didn't want made public and that was why he decided Edison had to die. Ralston offered to post the letter for Edison, but instead of posting it, he stole it and put it in his overcoat pocket, where Laura Hemmings found it.”

“Right, I understand that bit, but why did you want me to find out 'ow long Ralston was alone in the downstairs 'all?” Wiggins persisted.

“Because that's when Ralston unlocked the tradesmen's door.” Phyllis glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “Sorry, but am I right?”

“Clever girl, yes, you are. I suspect he told Edison that he needed to use the water closet as an excuse to get out of the room. Then he went downstairs and used the excuse of needing a headache powder to get the servants out of his way so he could unlock the door. But that was the key to his plan: He needed that door unlocked because he knew it was the only way back into the house. He also knew that Edison used the miner's shovel as a doorstop, so he had a weapon.” She grimaced slightly. “Bashing someone on the head isn't a very efficient way to commit murder and Ralston knew this—that's why he spent time in his study that afternoon practicing his aim.”

Phyllis looked doubtful. “How do you know that?”

“Enid Carter; remember she told you that on the afternoon of the murder, Ralston was in a particularly bad mood. She said, ‘He came home that afternoon, shut himself in his study, and thumped his fist against the sofa pillows for half an hour.'”

“Oh, my goodness, you're right, he was practicing and he had his own miner's shovel. All the directors had one.”

“Ralston came back that evening and waited for his moment to strike,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “He had a bit of luck when the carolers arrived at Edison's door at the time the servants were leaving—that provided both a distraction and a cover for any noise he might have made going up the stairs. As soon as the carolers left, he committed the murder and then left, went home, and quite calmly ate his dinner. What he didn't count on was Laura Hemmings going through his coat pockets and finding the letter.”

“But if he planned the murder, why use the shovel?” Ruth asked. “Why not a knife or a gun?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment before she answered. “I don't know for certain, but I think his original plan was to have the police think the murder had been done by an intruder, a burglar or robber who picked up the shovel when they were unexpectedly discovered by Edison.”

“Which means he wouldn't have brought another weapon with him,” Ruth said.

“Right, but when the carolers arrived just as the household was leaving, I think he made a spur-of-the-moment decision so instead of waiting till all was quiet, he used the music of the carolers to cover any noise he might make getting into the house, grabbed the shovel, and murdered Orlando Edison.”

“Is that why he left Edison's body lying in the doorway?” Hatchet asked. “To make it appear as if the assailant slipped in right behind the carolers?”

“Something like that.” Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “But it could also be that, like most people, he didn't realize a corpse is heavy. Hence the expression ‘dead weight.' He might have left him there because he didn't have the strength to move the body.”