Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (10 page)

“But that wasn’t the worst of it—” She broke off and nodded her thanks as the barman slipped another glass in front of her.

Wiggins dug out more coins from his pocket and paid him. “What could be worse than a death in the ’ousehold?”

“Comin’ home from Cook’s funeral and findin’ out the mistress has been murdered,” she said dryly. “That’s what’s worse. The police were there all yesterday afternoon and they’re back today. That’s why I was able to slip away; they wanted everyone out from under their feet while they searched the house again. Mind you, I don’t know what they expect to find.” She raised her glass and tossed back the drink.

“Cor blimey, that must ’ave been a terrible shock for you,” he said sympathetically. He saw her look at the barman again. Wiggins warred with his conscience. He’d already bought her two drinks and she’d had one before he arrived. If he bought her another one he could probably loosen her tongue even more. But on the other hand, he knew what drink could do to a person and he didn’t want to contribute to her downfall. Still, murder had been done and who was he to pass judgment on how other people, especially someone of her age, chose to live their lives? “Would you like another?” He waved the barman over and pointed to her empty glass.

“That’s very kind of you.” She grinned broadly. “I don’t usually drink like this, but as I said, it’s been a very tryin’ time at our household and we’ve no idea what’s goin’ to happen to us. No one has told us how much longer we’ll be kept on or even if we’ll be kept on at all.”

“That’s terrible.” He shook his head in sympathy. “I know what it’s like to wonder if you’re going to ’ave a job come tomorrow. Do you know who might have killed your mistress? Was it like them Ripper murders?”

“’Course I don’t. Mind you, if I was the police, I’d take a look at that Reverend Samuel Richards—leastways, that’s what he calls himself, but he’s no more a reverend than I am the Queen’s ruddy cousin.” She snorted and then quickly smiled as another drink appeared.

“What’s wrong with him?” Wiggins pressed.

“He’s a confidence trickster, that’s what’s wrong with him,” she replied. “Any fool can see that, but Miss Kettering thought the sun rose and set on the fellow.”

“You mean he’s not a real vicar?”

“’Course not!” She laughed. “He runs something called the Society of the Humble, but it’s not a proper church. But she didn’t care about that; she only cared that he told her what she wanted to hear.”

“She was a religious woman, then?” he asked.

“Only if your religion calls for everyone and their brother to burn in hell.” She grinned. “She was always goin’ on about how people were goin’ to hell, how they were evil and the devil was just waiting to get his hands on their souls. That’s why she left St. Matthew’s. The vicar there wasn’t nasty enough for the likes of her.”

Wiggins noticed her glass was empty again. He nodded at the barman and then turned his attention back to his companion. “What does that mean?”

She smiled in delight as another drink appeared on the counter. “Ta.” She grabbed the glass and hoisted it to her mouth, drained it, and slapped it back on the counter. “It means that Reverend Clark talked too much about love and compassion and not enough about sin and misery.”

“She stopped goin’ to church because the vicar was too kind?” Wiggins said in surprise. He wasn’t sure if he was learning anything useful, but he thought he might as well continue.

“She didn’t stop right away,” Lila said. “It was only after she met Rizshards that she stopped going to St. Matthew’s. He’s an oily one, he is. He’s goin’ to be right upset when he finds out she’s dead. He shought he had her right in the palm of his haannd.”

Wiggins realized he’d bought the woman one drink too many. Cor blimey, now she was slurring her words. “Do you need to go back to work today?” he asked anxiously. He didn’t like the idea of her chopping vegetables in her current condition. “I don’t want you to get into trouble because you’ve been . . . uh, keepin’ me company.”

“’Course I gotta go back to work, but I don’t have much to do.” She giggled. “Bein’ as the cook is dead, we’re having a cold supper, and with the police underfoot Mrs. McAllister doesn’t have time to keep track of the likes of us. Besides, she’s gone up to the attic with Mrs. Fox to get the crepe. Mrs. Fox wants the house draped in black before the funeral reception. I think it’s right cheeky of her to come in and take over; she’s not family, she’s only a tenant. But Mrs. McAllister is deferring to her and doin’ what she says.”

Relieved, he nodded. “What did you mean when you said that the preacher had your late mistress right where he wanted her?”

“Whadda ya think I meant? Miss Kettering was giving him money.” Lila hiccuped. “Lots of it. Oh, she pretended it was for that society of his, but from what my cousin Emma told me, he spent more of it on himself than he did buyin’ Bibles. Emma says that Richards has a cupboard full of expensive suits and he keeps cash in a strongbox under his bed.”

“And how does Emma know all of this?” Wiggins asked.

Lila waved her arms so widely that he had to duck to avoid getting clouted on the chin. “Because she bloomin’ well works for him,” she cried. “Emma lives there and sees it with her own eyes. That’s how she knows what’s what. She’s their maid and if she weren’t desperate for the job, she’d be out of that house faster than a running hound. But like the rest of us, she’s no choice but to stay there. Mind you, I feel a bit bad because I’m the one that told her about the position there.”

“She doesn’t like working there?” Wiggins asked halfheartedly. He was beginning to wonder how reliable this information might be. Lila was fairly soused.

“She hates it and she’d not be there if it weren’t for me. It’s my fault she’s stuck there,” she said. “A few months ago I overheard Richards tellin’ Miss Kettering that they was lookin’ for a general maid. Emma was out of work so I told her about the position and she got the job.”

“Sounds to me like you were just tryin’ to do her a favor,” Wiggins said.

“Some favor,” she snorted. “Poor Emma, she does the work of three people and that wife of his is a right old tartar. She sits in that wheelchair of hers and orders Emma about like she’s the Queen of Sheba.”

“His wife is crippled?”

Lila snorted again. “She pretends to be, but Emma told me the woman’s faking her illness. Emma thinks it’s so they can get more money out of people. Every Sunday morning, the reverend wheels her into their meeting so everyone can get a good look at ’em. But she’s no more crippled than I am.”

“And Emma knows this for a fact, does she?”

“She does.” Her eyes narrowed angrily and Wiggins realized she wasn’t as far gone as he thought she was.

“I mean, how does she know?” He deliberately made his tone more conversational as he asked the question.

“Because Emma’s seen her walking about the place late at night,” she replied. “Mrs. Richards didn’t know anyone was up, but Emma had crept downstairs to get a glass of water and she saw the woman plain as day walking about on her own two legs. What’s more, last week when the Richardses were having a fierce argument, Emma saw the woman leap out of her chair and box the good reverend’s ears.”

 

Barnes closed his notebook and tucked it into his jacket pocket as the inspector rose to his feet and smiled at Patricia Cameron. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Cameron,” he began.

“Patty, who is out there with you?” The voice was weak and the accent Scots.

The two policemen turned to see a man standing in the open doorway of the room across from the kitchen. He was a tall, very slender man wearing a maroon dressing gown over his nightclothes. His black hair was mussed, his face unshaven and pale, and there were dark circles around his deep-set brown eyes.

Patricia quickly got to her feet and rushed across the room. “Darling, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you. But what are you doing out of bed? You know what the doctor said, you must rest.”

“You didn’t wake me and I’m tired of resting.” He didn’t take his gaze off the two policemen. “What are they doing here?”

Witherspoon crossed the room and extended his hand. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

“I’m Angus Cameron,” he replied. They shook hands and he nodded politely at Barnes. “Waking up to find two policemen in my drawing room is a bit of a surprise. Why are you here?”

“Oh, darling, please go back to bed,” his wife pleaded. She put her hand on his arm. “It doesn’t matter why they are here. Let me take care of this. You know what the doctor said. You’re not to have any excitement.”

“Hush, Patty, I’m fine.” He kept his gaze on Witherspoon. “Inspector, my wife exaggerates. I assure you, sir, I’m not going to keel over dead regardless of why you’re here. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m afraid we’ve come on a most unhappy errand. Unfortunately, your wife’s aunt, Olive Kettering, was murdered yesterday.”

He said nothing for a moment, he simply stared at them. Then he grinned broadly. “Well, well, so the old witch finally drove someone too far.”

Patricia Cameron jerked her hand away from him like it was on fire and drew in a deep breath. “Angus, that’s a terrible thing to say. I know you don’t mean it.” She looked at Witherspoon. “You mustn’t pay any attention to him. He’s been taking a lot of medicine and doesn’t mean what he says.”

“They’re not fools, darling.” Angus laughed and looked at his wife. “They can see for themselves that I have my wits about me and that I mean every word. I’m sorry; I know she was your family. But she’s done everything possible to destroy us.”

“Don’t say that—nothing could ever destroy us.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But even if that were true, Aunt Olive could be hard as nails, but she didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“Someone thought she did.” He moved to the love seat and sat down on the spot his wife had just vacated and looked back at Witherspoon. “How was she killed?”

“She was shot yesterday morning in her back garden.”

Angus turned his head and stared at Patricia. “You knew, didn’t you? That’s why your cousin came to see you yesterday. You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you upset,” she protested. “You were sleeping and the doctor said you needed your rest. Besides, you’ve made it quite clear you loathed her.”

“Why shouldn’t I hate her? She’s done nothing but bring misery and pain to both of us. Look at how she treated you when you went to ask her for help.”

She gasped and he laughed softly. “You didn’t think I knew you’d gone to see her, did you?”

“How did you find out? I slipped out when you were asleep,” she said.

“I woke up and found you gone. I got up to make myself some tea and happened to look out the window just as you came home. I could see by your face that you were upset. Darling, there’s only one person in the world who could have made you look like that. Olive Kettering.” His expression hardened. “So don’t expect me to cry any crocodile tears now that someone has done the world a favor and dispatched the woman to her final resting place.”

Mrs. Goodge slid the plate of chocolate biscuits in front of her visitor and sat down. “Help yourself, Doris. As I recall, you always did have a bit of a sweet tooth.” She’d dug deep into her list of former work colleagues to find Doris Atherton. They’d worked together years earlier at Lord Rotherhide’s London house. Doris had been the scullery maid.

“You’ve got a good memory.” Doris reached for a biscuit. “These look good. Let’s see if your baking is as good as it used to be.” She popped the treat into her mouth.

“It’s an American recipe.” Mrs. Goodge watched her visitor closely, hoping to see a look of pleasure on her homely face. Even as a young girl, Doris had never been a beauty; she had buckteeth, bad skin, and very thin blonde hair. But she’d had a quick mind, a sweet disposition, and, most importantly, a good heart. Mrs. Goodge hoped the years had treated her kindly.

“Mmm.” Doris sighed happily. “These are wonderful. If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself to another. I must say, I was rather surprised to get your note. How on earth did you find me?”

“Ida Leahcock told me where you lived and I wanted to see you. I think more and more about the past these days. I always admired you so very much.”

Doris gasped in delight. “What a nice thing to say. I never even realized you knew my name. You were so much above the rest of us in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Goodge cringed inwardly. She was lying through her teeth. She’d only contacted Doris because she’d found out that she once worked for Dorian Kettering. Add to that, she was suddenly deeply ashamed of the way she’d once thought she must treat those “below” her. But back in those days, it had never occurred to her to question the way things were, that in rich households, the cook, the housekeeper, and the butler were to keep to themselves and to keep the rest of the servants very much in their place. But she wasn’t the same person she’d been back then; her own experience of being sacked by her last employer and tossed out onto the street for being “too old” had shown her that the current system was just plain wrong. This household’s murder investigations had also taught her that when it came to right and wrong, there were many shades of gray.