Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (19 page)

“Gracious, how did you find that out?” Myra gazed admiringly at her husband.

“It was easy; Harley Plummer, an artist friend of mine, dashed over to the cab just as Cameron got out. If you’ll recall, there was a terrible storm that morning and Harley was desperate to get out of the wet. He and Cameron almost knocked one another down. Harley said he was surprised to see Angus out and about. He’s been so ill recently.”

“That’s right,” Hatchet exclaimed. “Of course—Angus Cameron is an artist. You’re bound to know him.”

“Cameron’s a very talented painter, but not a very lucky one,” Reginald said. “And it’s not just poor health which has plagued the fellow. He’s had one disaster after another with his work.”

Hatchet’s spine tingled. Disasters and murder often went hand in hand. “What kind of disasters?”

“He’s had two exhibitions here in London, and both times, something awful has happened. The first gallery that showed his work got broken into and his entire collection was so badly vandalized they were worthless. Someone had slashed every painting in the place with a knife.”

Hatchet leaned forward. “Do you remember when this happened?”

“It was just before he got married. He was so distraught he almost postponed the wedding. But that wasn’t the worst of what happened to Cameron. He spent the next year working on another collection and managed to find another gallery willing to give him a show.” Reginald looked directly at Hatchet. “Do you know how difficult it is to find a gallery to give you your own exhibition?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “You’re the only artist I know.”

“And how many of my shows were you ever invited to?” Manley asked softly.

“Point taken.” Hatchet laughed. “But I did see some of your paintings—”

Reginald interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “Yes, but I never had my own showing. Occasionally I’d do a piece some gallery owner would agree to hang on his wall to see if he could sell it. My point is that Angus Cameron was and is talented enough to have had two exhibitions, and both times something happened to stop the public from seeing or buying his work.”

“What was the second disaster?” Myra asked.

“That one was even worse than the first,” Reginald grimaced. “Cameron worked out of a small studio he’d rented in a commercial building in Wandsworth. The night before the paintings were to be moved, the building caught fire and every single one of his paintings was destroyed.”

“The whole building burnt down?” Hatchet asked.

Reginald shook his head. “Luckily, the fire brigade got there very quickly and put the fire out. But unfortunately for Cameron, they weren’t able to save his studio. It was gutted.”

“Do they know what caused the blaze?” Hatchet drained the remainder of his cup.

“According to Angus Cameron, the cause of the fire was Olive Kettering.” Reginald smiled slyly. “He told his friends he thought she was out to ruin him. She never accepted his marriage to her niece. He was convinced she’d hired someone to burn his work.”

“But fires happen all the time,” Myra protested.

“Yes, but this one seemed to have been centered on his studio.” Reginald shrugged. “It was the only part of the building that was destroyed. Cameron claimed that the only combustible in the room was turpentine, which he kept in a sealed metal can.”

“If he was suspicious of his wife’s aunt, why didn’t he go to the police?” Hatchet asked.

“There was some sort of history between the Cameron and the Kettering families,” he replied. “So that might have been why he hesitated to take legal action.”

“Did he suspect that Olive Kettering was responsible for his first show being ruined as well?” Myra asked curiously.

“Oh, you clever woman, how did you guess?” He grinned broadly. “He was convinced Olive Kettering was responsible for both incidents but he’d no proof.”

Hatchet frowned. “But Olive Kettering was a genteel woman from an upper-class family. I can’t see her skulking about in the night with a knife or a box of matches. That sort of thing is far more difficult to do than one would think.”

“She’s also a rich woman,” Myra pointed out. “And, believe it or not, with very little effort one can hire that sort of work done.”

“But why would she try so hard to ruin the poor fellow?” Reginald mused softly. “That’s the more interesting question. Why did she hate him so much?”

“Probably because she thought Angus Cameron had stolen her most precious possession from her,” Myra speculated. “Patricia Kettering’s parents died when she was a child and Olive practically raised her. Perhaps Olive saw her niece’s actions as a betrayal. But then again, perhaps there’s another reason she didn’t want the Camerons marrying into her family. Now that she’s been murdered, I don’t think anyone will ever know for certain.”

“True,” Hatchet agreed. “But I’m wondering why a man supposedly at death’s door got out of a sickbed and ended up at Brook Green. Angus Cameron had a powerful motive for wanting Olive Kettering dead.”

Mrs. Jeffries took her seat and reached for the teapot. From the air of excitement around the table, she suspected everyone had something to share. Good, she thought, she was still befuddled by this case, so any additional information was very welcome. She was also rather proud that she’d have something very solid to contribute to the conversation. “Who would like to go first?” she asked as she began to pour.

“I’ll go,” Betsy volunteered. She felt much better now. Her nerves had settled and she’d even managed a cheery hello to Phyllis when she’d come in this afternoon. “I don’t think that what I found out is very important, but apparently, Bernadine Fox has plenty of money.” She told them everything she’d learned at the draper’s shop.

“Cor blimey, why would anyone care who made their lace table runners?” Wiggins exclaimed. “Fancy sending all the way to Belgium.”

Betsy shrugged. “She’s very particular in how her house is decorated. But that’s not all I found out. I had a bit of real luck at the fishmonger’s. The clerk there told me that on the morning of the murder, he saw the Reverend Samuel Richards crossing the road in front of the Kettering house.”

“What time did he see him?” Smythe asked. He was relieved that his wife seemed to be her usual cheerful self.

“He thinks it was between ten and ten thirty that morning, but that’s as close as he could guess.”

“Where did Richards say he was that morning?” Mrs. Goodge looked at the housekeeper. “I mean, in his statement to the inspector.”

Mrs. Jeffries’ brows drew together in a small frown. “He claimed he was home working on a sermon and that he’d last seen Miss Kettering at dinner the evening before she was murdered. But the inspector also mentioned that because of the storm, Olga Richards said that their servants weren’t able to get to the house untiil almost noon, so the inspector hasn’t confirmed Richards’ statement.”

Smythe looked at Betsy. “How did your clerk at the fishmonger’s know it was Richards?” He didn’t doubt the accuracy of his wife’s reporting, but he knew that young male clerks could exaggerate a bit when they were trying to impress a pretty lady. “The Kettering neighborhood is two miles from the Richards house so I doubt the good reverend buys his fish that far from home.”

Betsy was ready for that question. “His sister goes to services at the Society of the Humble and he’s even gone a time or two himself. The Reverend Richards is making a bit of a name for himself.”

“Yes, and the local vicars aren’t all that happy about it,” Ruth added. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not to worry, I’m finished. I just want to say I think it odd that Richards was skulking about near the Kettering house the very same morning that the woman was murdered.”

“We’ll have to be sure to give the inspector another nudge in that direction,” Mrs. Jeffries stated. “Perhaps he’ll need to ask Richards for a more thorough accounting of his whereabouts at the time of the murder.”

“I think he got distracted by Olga Richards and her jealous outburst,” the cook suggested.

“Yes, I suspect that’s exactly what happened,” the housekeeper replied. She looked at Betsy. “Exactly where was this fishmonger’s stall? It wouldn’t hurt to have Constable Barnes have a quick word with that clerk, just to be on the safe side.”

“It’s on the corner of Faroe Road, just opposite the draper’s shop,” Betsy said.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded her thanks and then said, “Who would like to go next?”

“I’ll take a turn,” Luty offered. “I didn’t hear much, but I did find out that the Reverend Samuel Richards is used to getting the short end of the stick. A few years back he was all set to inherit a bucket of money from a lonely woman in Manchester, a woman very much like Olive Kettering. You know, single, middle-aged, and rich. She died suddenly of a heart attack and willed him her entire estate. But before the estate was settled, there was family that took him to court and he ended up losing everything. He didn’t get so much as a penny.”

“How could he lose if he was named in the lady’s will?” Wiggins helped himself to a slice of bread. “I mean, wouldn’t her wishes be the ones that the courts would ’onor?”

“Don’t be so innocent.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “Once someone is dead, all the power shifts to the family. Outsiders generally get nothing.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Betsy protested. “People ought to be able to leave their money to anyone they please.”

“Of course they should,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. They didn’t have much time and she didn’t want them distracted by this sort of discussion.

“Courts always take a hard look at anyone outside the family gittin’ the money,” Luty declared. “It’s the same way in the States. I expect it’s been like that for thousands of years. Anyways, that’s all I found out. It don’t sound like much, but I like to think that every little bit helps us.”

“Indeed it does,” the housekeeper agreed.

“As Madam is finished, I’ll go next if it’s all the same to everyone,” Hatchet said. He told them about his visit to see the Manleys. When he’d finished, he helped himself to a slice of cake and picked up his fork.

“Cor blimey, it sounds as if half of London was skulkin’ about near the Kettering house that morning,” Wiggins exclaimed. “And here we all thought that Angus Cameron was too ill to get out of his bed.”

“Perhaps it was his excursion out in the storm that forced him into his bed,” Mrs. Goodge murmured.

“What I find interestin’ is that everyone involved in this case seems to have a bit of a secret life,” Wiggins continued excitedly. “You know, like from one of them novels.” He read a lot of novels and had once considered trying his hand at writing his own book, but that was before he’d decided to become a detective.

“What do you mean?” Betsy asked curiously. Over the course of their cases, she’d realized that the footman’s insights were valuable.

“Well, it looks like this Mrs. Richards has a bit of a past, what with her pushin’ maids down staircases and stabbin’ her fiancés, and now we find out that Angus Cameron might have been skulkin’ about the Kettering neighborhood in the middle of a fierce storm even though he’s supposedly at death’s door. And what about Mrs. Fox? From what you’ve told us, she’s an odd one as well. Imagine sending all the way to Belgium for a couple of lace runners; it don’t make sense. None of them people in this case make sense. I think the whole lot of ’em are a peculiar bunch and, what’s more, I think it’s got something to do with the Kettering house itself. Today, I spoke to a lad that took messages there for Mr. Dorian Kettering, and he told me about how he’d gotten yelled at because he’d accidentally fallen in a flower bed. Seems Miss Kettering had come running from the house screaming her head off. Poor lad was so frightened, he dropped his note and run off.”

“Most people have a secret life of one sort or the other,” the cook muttered.

“I’ll go next.” Smythe glanced at the clock. “We’d best hurry. It’s gettin’ on and the inspector’s going to be here any minute now. Luckily, I’ve not got much to report. I spent most of the day trying to find any cab drivers who might have taken one of our suspects to the Kettering neighborhood, but I didn’t have any luck. Which is downright strange, considerin’ that it looks like ’alf our suspects was there that mornin’. But I’ll keep tryin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Ruth. She shrugged and shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve not done as well as the others. All I heard was that the local vicars aren’t happy to be losing parishioners or collection monies to the Society of the Humble, but there’s nothing they can do about it. I know it’s not much, but I’m hoping to learn something useful soon. I’m going to a tea party and there’s sure to be lots of gossip there.”

“You’ve done as well as the rest of us,” Wiggins declared. “We all ’ave days when we don’t find out much of anythin’.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “You’ve certainly done your fair share. Now, if no one else has anything to report, I’ll tell you what I found out. I went to St. Thomas’ Hospital this afternoon to have a quick word with Dr. Bosworth, but unfortunately, he’s in Edinburgh at a medical conference. But my trip wasn’t wasted because I ran into another physician, a Dr. Pendleton, who apparently has taken Bosworth’s principles to heart.”