Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (5 page)

“That was his usual habit?” Witherspoon asked. Experience had taught him that familiarity with the victim's routine was often very helpful.

“That's right.” She nodded as she spoke. “After luncheon, he'd often go to the exchange, but not always. Today he stayed home. He said he had some personal correspondence to see to and that he'd need Kitty to take a letter to the postbox.”

“Did he have any visitors?”

“Mr. Ralston came by. Mr. Ralston is one of the directors of the Granger Mine, and this was the first time he's been here since the bankruptcy was made public.”

“Was Mr. Edison surprised or upset by the visit?”

“Oh no, they were quite cordial to one another. But then, Mr. Edison never let business sour him on people.”

* * *

Downstairs, Barnes had finished speaking to Mrs. Green, the cook, and was now with the maid, Kitty Long. She was a chubby, blonde-haired young lass with blue eyes red rimmed from crying and nice, even features. “Are you feeling better, miss?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, but it was such a shock.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a tear-stained handkerchief. “Mr. Edison is—I mean was—such a good master. Why would anyone want to kill him? I don't understand. How can this be happening? Where will I go? I only just got this job a few months ago.”

“Now, now, I'm sure you'll be fine. I imagine you can stay on here until everything is sorted out, but if we're to catch the person who did this, you must get hold of yourself and keep calm.”

She sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled heavily. “You're right, I mustn't be so selfish. Mrs. Clarridge has already said she'll make sure we all get a good reference and she has a friend who runs a domestic employment agency. But I don't know what I can tell you. We were all gone when he was killed. Mr. Edison had bought us tickets to the theater.”

“This was a Christmas treat, was it?” Barnes opened his little brown notebook and picked up his pencil.

“It was a surprise.” She grinned. “He told us yesterday morning: He came right down to the servants' hall just as we finished breakfast and announced he'd bought us tickets to
The Shop Girl
at the Gaiety. Everyone was so excited and then he said he was giving us pocket money to buy sweets and come home in hansom cabs. Can you imagine, sir, hansom cabs!”

“He sounds a very generous employer.” Barnes nodded encouragingly as he flipped open his notebook.

“He was, sir.” Her eyes flooded with tears but she blinked them back. “Mrs. Clarridge offered to stay back in case he needed something, but he wouldn't have it. He said he could fend for himself and that he was meeting a friend for supper at Barnaby's Restaurant and we were to go and enjoy ourselves. So as soon as we had our evening meal, we tidied up and then left.”

“What time did you go?”

“Six o'clock,” she replied. “We caught the omnibus on the corner and then changed to the Strand omnibus on Haymarket Street. That got us to the Gaiety a half hour before the curtain went up.”

“When you left the house, did you notice anyone hanging around, anyone suspicious looking?” He always hated asking this. Most murderers, especially ones that had planned their crime, went to great lengths to fade into the background. But it was a question that needed to be asked.

Her brows drew together as she thought back to the start of the evening. “I didn't notice anyone. But this is a busy street”—she pointed toward the front of the house—“and there were lots of people out shopping, carolers, and tradespeople making deliveries. That's why we left so early for the theater, because there was so much traffic.”

“Did you leave by the front door?”

“No, the servants' door.”

“The one on the lower ground floor at the front of the house?”

“That's the tradesmen's door, sir; it's only used for deliveries. It's a bit bigger than the other doors. It's always kept locked.”

“Does Mrs. Clarridge keep the key?”

“She doesn't, sir. It's one of them big, old-fashioned locks, so the key hangs on a nail by the door.” She grinned. “I don't think she wants to come dashin' down all the stairs in this house every time we get a delivery. She's got bad knees.”

“And was it locked today?”

“It was, sir. I locked it myself after the laundry was delivered early this morning and that was the only time the door was opened.”

“To your knowledge has Mr. Edison been worried about anyone lately? Has anyone threatened him or upset him?”

She drew back, her eyes widening in surprise. “I'm only a maid, sir. I'd not know anything like that.”

“I didn't mean anything untoward,” he assured her quickly, realizing she made an assumption he'd not meant. “Of course he'd not say anything to his servants about such a matter, but you seem like an intelligent and observant young woman. I was hoping you might have noticed something or perhaps overheard something that might prove useful.”

Pleased by his words, she smiled. “Well, I wasn't eavesdroppin' or anything, but two days ago when I was dusting the drawing room, I overhead him arguing with Mr. Downing. Mr. Charles Downing. He's one of Mr. Edison's business associates.”

Barnes wrote down the name, then looked up and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Do you know what the argument was about?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the closed dining room door. “I didn't hear much of it. Mrs. Clarridge come in and sent me upstairs to get her more brass polish and by the time I got down, the study door was open and both Mr. Edison and Mr. Downing were gone. But before that, Mr. Downing was shouting that Mr. Edison had better be careful, that people wouldn't take kindly to losing their money. Mr. Edison yelled right back at him that any kind of investin' was risky and that just because things went bad, it wasn't his fault. Mr. Downing screamed that it was his fault. That's when Mrs. Clarridge come in and sent me upstairs. I don't think she really needed the brass polish, she only wanted to stop me from overhearin' the argument.” She glanced at the closed door again. “I think she just wanted me out of the way so she could have a good listen, if you know what I mean.”

* * *

A quarter of a mile away, Mrs. Jeffries yawned as she and Fred stepped into the back hall. She reached down and unhooked his lead, and together they trudged up the corridor to the kitchen. Ruth had wanted to stay and wait for Wiggins, but Mrs. Jeffries had pointed out that even if the footman had learned something of significance, there was nothing that could be done until morning. So with Fred acting as their guard, she'd seen Ruth safely home.

Mrs. Goodge was still sitting at the table when they came into the kitchen. The dog immediately flopped onto his rug and curled into a sleepy ball.

“Is Phyllis back yet?” Mrs. Jeffries hung her cloak on the coat tree.

“Not yet, but she said she might be late. Her friend is a bit of a nervous Nelly and Phyllis was going to have the cab drop her off first.”

“You're going to wait up,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she slipped into her seat. It was a comment rather than a question.

“Of course.” Mrs. Goodge grinned. “I dozed off earlier this evening and once I've had a catnap, it's ages before I can get back to sleep. One of the few advantages of getting old is that you don't need as much sleep as the younger ones. Besides, I want to hear what our Wiggins has found out.”

“So do I. I feel rather badly for the inspector, though—I know he was anticipating the holidays with Amanda Belle.”

“Luty and I were, too. But it's only the eighteenth, so if the crime isn't complicated it might get solved quickly. Then all of us godparents will be able to enjoy the season with our baby.”

“But it will be complicated.” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to a cup of tea. “That's precisely why the chief inspector interrupted Inspector Witherspoon's evening. Once he identified the victim, he knew it wasn't going to be an easy case and he wanted his most experienced officer to take charge.”

“It doesn't seem fair, does it? Our inspector wasn't even on duty tonight.” She glanced at the clock and pursed her lips in a frown. “I do hope Wiggins is alright. It's miserable out there and I'd not like him to catch frostbite.”

“He's young, he'll be fine. Where did he go this evening? I heard him mention something about going out tonight, but frankly, when he started talking about football I stopped listening.”

She laughed. “He went to the pub with his friend Tommy. They were going to make plans about a game this Saturday—” She broke off as they heard the back door open and Fred, who'd been sleeping in front of the cooker, reared up and then trotted toward the back door.

“Hello, old boy, do you need to go walkies again?” Wiggins' voice was clear as a bell. “Or did you do all your business when Ruth took ya?”

“He's fine. I took him out again when I walked Ruth home,” Mrs. Jeffries called out quickly. “So you can come straight in and sit down.”

“Good. It's freezin' outside and you know Fred, 'e likes to sniff every leaf and bush in the garden.” He patted the dog on the head and then slipped into the chair next to the cook. Fred flopped back down on his rug.

“Here, drink this.” Mrs. Goodge pushed the mug of tea she'd poured toward him. “It'll warm you right up. Now, did you hear anything useful?”

He nodded his thanks and took a quick sip of the hot brew. “I don't know if it's useful, but I did find out a thing or two.” He told them about his encounter with Georgie and how everyone, save Mrs. Wynn, thought Orlando Edison was a wonderful master.

“So he was well liked by his servants,” the cook murmured. “Then it's a safe bet none of them had anything to do with his death. Good positions with decent masters are rarer than gold nuggets from the Thames.”

“Mrs. Wynn didn't think much of 'im,” Wiggins reminded her.

The cook snorted. “She doesn't think much of anyone except herself. Mrs. Wynn is the sort of person who'd criticize the Second Coming.”

“But she doesn't out-and-out lie,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “So we should do our best to find out who the weeping woman might be and, more importantly, what had Edison done that made her cry?”

* * *

“If that will be all, Inspector, I really must see to the household.” Mrs. Clarridge rose to her feet. “The girls are still very upset and I've got to write notes to the local vicar and Mr. Edison's solicitor.”

“Did he have any family?”

She shook her head. “Not that I'm aware of, Inspector, and if there is, his solicitor would know.” She pointed to a slip of paper on the desk. “That's his name and address. I'm sure you'll want to speak with him yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clarridge, you've been very helpful.” He got up and grabbed the paper off the desk. He'd covered the victim's last day and whatever other questions he might have could wait until another time.

She started to leave, took two steps, and came to an abrupt halt as Constable Griffiths' voice thundered through the closed doors. “Just a moment, sir. You can't go in there. There's been a crime committed here.”

“Crime, what crime?” The voice was male and accent American. “What are you talking about? What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?”

Witherspoon, giving in to what Mrs. Jeffries called his “inner voice,” shot past the startled housekeeper and into the hall. Constable Griffiths stood like a sentinel, blocking the front door with his arms. On the doorstep, a man wearing a black top hat bobbed and weaved from side to side trying to see inside.

“Let the gentleman in, please,” he ordered the constable.

“Yes, sir.” Griffiths moved aside and the man stepped inside.

Witherspoon studied him as he crossed the small space. He was a rather youngish-looking fellow. He swept off his hat as he moved, revealing a face with pleasant features, dark brown hair, and light gray eyes.

“I'm Yancy Kimball,” he announced. “Where's Orlando? Why is this place thick with police?”

“You're a friend of Mr. Edison's?” Witherspoon asked. Mrs. Jeffries had always told him to trust the voice, that part of himself that saw and understood on a level that was different from the rational part of his brain. So, despite the man's aggressive manner, the inspector wasn't alarmed. The fellow looked more anxious than threatening. “If so, I'm afraid I've some very bad news.”

Kimball's eyes widened and his face visibly paled. “Oh, God, what has happened? Is he alright? Has he been hurt?”

“Please, do come sit down, Mr. Kimball, and I'll explain everything.” Witherspoon turned and went back into the drawing room.

Kimball followed after him, unbuttoning his coat as he walked. He was now as white as a sheet as he slipped onto the seat at the end of the sofa. “Tell me, sir, why are the police here? Where's Orlando? We were supposed to meet at Barnaby's Restaurant for supper, but he never arrived. That's not like him.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Edison is dead.” Witherspoon watched Kimball carefully. “He was murdered earlier this evening.”

For a moment, Kimball simply gaped at him. His mouth gaped open and his eyes flooded with tears. “Murdered? Orlando? No, that can't be right. He can't be dead. I saw him yesterday as I was coming out of Thomas Cook's. That's when we made our plans to have supper together tonight.”

“You're planning a trip, sir?” It was always wise to know what plans witnesses made, Witherspoon thought.

“I'm leaving for New York after the new year. I was booking my passage.” He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe he's dead.”

“How long have you and Mr. Edison been friends?” Witherspoon asked.

“All of our lives,” Kimball murmured. “Orlando is—or was—my cousin.”