Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (22 page)

“Mrs. Fox has a flat over the carriage house,” Rosemarie replied. “So I’m the only help that lives in, but she doesn’t make me do everything. Once a fortnight, we get a cleaner in to do the heavy work. Mrs. Fox is right particular about her things. She’s always getting the rugs cleaned and having the curtains aired. They’re heavy as the very devil as well, so getting them up and down takes ages. I couldn’t do it on me own.”

They’d reached the café. Wiggins opened the door and escorted her to a table by the door before going to the counter to get their tea. He was annoyed with himself. He’d forgotten that the Kettering servants would be getting ready to go to their late mistress’s funeral today and wouldn’t be outside the house running errands. He supposed he ought to consider himself lucky he’d even managed to find Rosemarie Lewis. But he didn’t think she’d have much to tell him. She couldn’t have much to do with the Kettering household, he reasoned, since she wasn’t being forced to go to the funeral. But she seemed to be a nice girl and he’d not hurt her feelings. It just niggled him that he was wasting time. Still, maybe he’d learn something useful. After all, Bernadine Fox had been the one to find the dead woman and raise the alarm.

The counterman gave him two cups of tea and he took them to the table. “’Ere you are,” he said, putting one in front of Rosemarie. He took his seat. “It sounds like your mistress is a good sort to work for, then; that must be a relief to you. Some places aren’t so nice.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I don’t just do the housework—Mrs. Fox lets me do the cookin’ as well. That’s my ambition, you see, to become a proper cook. Mrs. Fox says that’ll take years and years and that I’d need to get experience workin’ in a big house. She says when she was growin’ up in the Kettering house, they had two full-time cooks and three scullery maids. Isn’t that amazing? She says that back in her day, they used the old ballroom on the second floor as a dining room and that the scullery maids had to use a secret passage to get up there from the kitchen so the food would still be hot. Mind you, sometimes I think she can be as fanciful as poor Miss Kettering, because when I asked her where the secret passage was, she told me she’d never said any such thing.”

Wiggins opened his mouth to ask a question, but she didn’t give him a chance. She kept right on speaking. “But Mrs. Fox treats me decently and pays well. Not like those poor girls that worked for Miss Kettering.”

“Who’s Miss Kettering?” he asked quickly. Cor blimey, she was really a talker.

“She’s the lady who owns the main house and she was just murdered,” she explained with the air of someone passing along a great secret. “Surely you’ve read about it in the papers. We’ve had the police around for ages asking questions and making a nuisance of themselves.”

“Oh yes, now I remember. She’s the poor lady that was murdered in her back garden.”

“Poor lady, my foot,” Rosemarie snorted. “She was a terrible woman. She was mean and nasty to everyone—”

“Were you there when it happened?” he interrupted.

“I was at a funeral that morning and that was her fault, too,” Rosemarie declared. “Poor Mrs. Grant—she was Miss Kettering’s cook—she was right nice to me, helpin’ me with my cookin’ and sharin’ recipes. She died of a stomach ailment because that old witch didn’t call the doctor in on time. So I was in Kent at her funeral. Olive Kettering couldn’t be bothered to go. Like I said, she was awful, especially to her servants. I don’t know why Mrs. Fox and Miss Kettering were such great friends. They were nothing at all alike. But they must have been friends because Mrs. Fox sent off all the way to Holland for that expensive cocoa—Mrs. Fox kept asking Miss Kettering how she liked the taste and all she’d ever say was that she couldn’t tell the difference between good English cocoa and that Dutch stuff! Talk about being rude! Honestly, you’d think she’d at least have had the decency to tell a little white lie and pretend she liked the stuff.”

“It’s cold in here,” Witherspoon muttered to Barnes. They were at the Richards house and the tired-looking young maid who had answered the door had bid them wait in the rows of hard seats used for the society’s religious services. “I don’t think they bother to heat this part of the house.” He stopped speaking as the door opened and Samuel Richards appeared.

“Good day, Inspector, Constable.” He nodded to them as he approached. “I’m rather surprised to see you. Especially today. Poor Olive’s services are this morning.”

“We know; we intend to be there,” Witherspoon replied. “Are you going to the funeral?”

Richards raised an eyebrow. “But of course I’m going. She was a member of my flock and I was her spiritual adviser. She would have wanted me there.”

“But we’ve had it on good authority that the family doesn’t want you or any member of your group at the services,” Barnes said. He’d decided to put the cat among the pigeons and see what happened. Angry people often lost control of their tongues.

“The family has no say in who can come into a church,” Richards snapped. “Now, I’m in a hurry, so what is it you want?”

“We’ve only a few more questions, sir,” Witherspoon said. “We’ll try to be brief.”

Richards sighed heavily. “I would appreciate that. Now, can you please get on with it?”

Olga Richards suddenly appeared in the doorway. “What do they want?” she asked, addressing her husband.

“They’re almost finished,” Richards said to her before turning his attention back to the policemen. “Now, what else is it that you need to ask us? This has been a very distressing day and I’d like some time to meditate and pray before we need to leave.”

“Where were you on the morning that Miss Kettering was murdered?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’ve already told you, I was right here, writing a sermon.” He folded his arms over his chest.

“Are you certain of that, sir?” Barnes added.

Richards drew back a bit. “I don’t know what you can possibly mean by that comment. Of course I’m sure. I know exactly where I was.”

The inspector glanced at Mrs. Richards. He was hoping her expression might help him decide if her husband was lying. But she was staring impassively straight ahead, her face giving away nothing. He looked back at Richards. “Mr. Richards—”

“Reverend Richards,” he interrupted. “Please use the proper address when speaking to me, sir.”

“Then we’ll address you as Mr. Richards,” Barnes said. “Considering that the Bible college in Edmonton has never heard of you and certainly didn’t grant you a degree.”

Richards was taken aback but quickly recovered. “That’s nonsense. Obviously your people must have made a mistake when they checked my credentials.”

“No, sir, they did not,” Barnes replied evenly. “You’ve no more right to use the word ‘reverend’ in front of your surname than I do.”

“I don’t have to stand here and be insulted,” he sputtered.

“That’s correct, sir, you don’t have to stand here,” the inspector interjected. “We can always have this conversation at the station.”

Richards’ mouth gaped open in stunned surprise. “Get on with it, then—what do you want to know?”

“If you were here on the morning Miss Kettering was murdered, why do we have a witness that claims they saw you at the Kettering house?” This was a bit of a shot in the dark. The inspector didn’t have a witness per se, but Barnes had told him that one of the local constables had been told that Richards had been spotted near the murder scene.

“Your witness is lying.” Olga Richards wheeled herself forward. “My husband was here with me that morning.”

Richards smiled at his wife. “Of course I was,” he agreed. “Just as I told you, Inspector.”

“Can anyone else confirm this?” Barnes asked. “One of your servants, perhaps?”

“Very clever, Constable. I’ve already told you that neither of the servants were here that morning.” Olga lifted her chin defiantly. “So you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“And you can vouch for the fact that your husband was here the entire morning,” Witherspoon pressed.

“I’ve said he was, haven’t I?” she replied irritably. “Now, we’re busy so I’ll thank you to leave.”

“We’re not through with our questions, ma’am,” the inspector said. Even though she’d been rude and he was a bit embarrassed, after thinking about what Mrs. Jeffries had said, he had to ask the question. It would be difficult, after all, he was a gentleman, but for the sake of justice, it had to be asked. “Er, Mrs. Richards, this is rather awkward, but we’ve heard a rumor that you’re not completely confined to your, er . . . uh . . .”

“Are you confined to your chair or can you walk?” Barnes asked bluntly.

Witherspoon gave him a grateful smile.

She stared at them for a few moments, her expression calculating. “I do have some mobility, but I tire quickly. Now, if you’re through with your questions, I’d like you to leave.”

 

Smythe stood just inside the door of the Dragon’s Head Pub and took a good look around. It was a busy workingman’s pub with plain wooden benches along the walls and a few rough-hewn tables. As it was lunchtime, the bar was crowded with people in for a quick pint before going back to their labors. He started across the room, thinking he’d push his way in, but just then two men at the far end left so he quickened his pace and got to the empty spot before it was snatched by someone else.

The barman, a big, burly fellow in a stained apron, was midway up the counter. “What’ll you ’ave?”

“A pint,” he called. While the barman got his drink, he listened to the people around him, but the place was so noisy all he could hear was a babble of voices.

“Here you go.” The barman slid his glass in front of him and Smythe handed him some coins, taking care to put down far more than the cost of the beer.

The man picked up the money and his eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything, Smythe said, “I’m ’opin’ you can ’elp me. My employer left some important papers in a cab over on Brook Green and I’m tryin’ to track ’em down.” He was careful to use the same story here that he’d used with the drivers at the cab shack. “I was told there were a couple of drivers who were out that morning and that they often stopped in ’ere for a pint at lunchtime.”

The barman glanced at the coins in his hand again and then back at Smythe. “You know their names?” he asked.

“Leadbetter and Duggan.”

“Duggan’s not been in today, but Leadbetter’s sitting over there.” He nodded toward one of the tables. “He’s the one in the brown coat.”

Smythe nodded his thanks, picked up his glass, and went to the table. Three men, all of them wearing bowlers and heavy overcoats, looked up as he approached. “Are you Mr. Leadbetter?” he asked, focusing his gaze on the man closest to him.

The fellow regarded him warily before he answered. “I am. Do I know you?”

“No, but you might ’ave met my employer. She was in your rig the other day,” Smythe replied. “Can you spare me a couple of minutes?”

“You alright, then, Mickey?” one of his companions asked. He kept his gaze on Smythe.

“I’m alright,” Leadbetter said to his friends.

“We’ll be shoving off, then,” the man said as he and the other man pushed away from the table and got to their feet. “See you later, Mickey.”

Smythe waited until they were out of earshot before he slipped onto the stool and pulled a half crown out of his pocket. It was a lot of money, but he wanted some answers if there were any to be had.

Smythe laid the coin on the table and Leadbetter’s eyes widened. “If that’s what you’re offerin’, then ask all the questions you want,” he muttered. “Uh, if I don’t know the answers do I still get the money?”

“It’s your time I’m buyin’,” he replied. “Now, what I’m wantin’ to know is if you picked up a fare and took it anywhere near Brook Green on the morning we ’ad that terrible storm.”

Leadbetter’s heavy brows drew together in thought. “There were two fares that mornin’,” he said slowly. “I remember because it was such a miserable day and a lot of drivers weren’t even takin’ their rigs out. I didn’t take either of them to Brook Green, but both of them were dropped near there. Will that do ya?”

“Can you give me a few more details? You know, where you picked ’em up and where you took ’em?”

Leadbetter scratched his chin. “A bloke waved me down and I took him to Randolph Road—that’s just around the corner.”

“What did ’e look like?” Smythe took a sip from his glass.

“I don’t remember too much; it was pourin’ with rain and he ’ad an umbrella. But he was a young man, I know that much.”

“Where’d you pick ’im up?”

“At Shepherd’s Bush station,” Leadbetter said. “I dropped him in front of an estate agent’s on Randolph Road. I saw him go inside the office.”

Smythe nodded. It didn’t sound like this fellow was one of their suspects. “And the second fare?”

Leadbetter grinned broadly. “Now, that one I do remember. She was one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. She waved me down on the Uxbridge Road. She was standing there, trying to ’ang onto this huge umbrella and wave me down at the same time. She seemed a fragile sort of lady, so I got down and helped her into the rig. She was carryin’ a small carpetbag and it was soaked through. I took her to where Randolph Road dead-ends on Brook Green.”