Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (31 page)

Barnes grinned broadly. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I did knock. When no one answered, I thought you must be down here.”

“Come and have tea, Constable,” Witherspoon ordered. “You look all done in.”

“I’m just on my way home, sir. But I could do with something hot.” He sat down next to Wiggins. “The superintendent asked me to give you a message. He said to remind you that you weren’t to come into the station tomorrow if you’re feeling poorly, sir. You got more smoke in your lungs than anyone.”

“You said the inspector saved a young woman’s life,” Mrs. Goodge pressed. “Do tell us, Constable. You know the inspector is too modest to blow his own horn.”

“Now, now, I did no more than any other police officer would do,” Witherspoon began.

Barnes interrupted. “He brought a young housemaid that was trapped on the second floor down a secret staircase to safety. Sally Hughley was so terrified she couldn’t move. What’s more, when the inspector tried to bring the girl down the main stairs, Bernadine Fox tried to murder him by smashing a lamp of paraffin oil onto the stairs and lighting it on fire. Oh, and he cut his hand on a piece of exploding glass as we ran for our lives.”

Witherspoon blushed profusely. “You exaggerate, Constable. You did your fair share today. You correctly anticipated that once the main stairs were blocked, I’d use the other ones, and you waited for us at great risk to yourself. So I’m not the only one who went above and beyond the call of duty today.”

“Thank you, sir.” Barnes blushed as well.

Betsy, who’d gotten up to get the tea, slid a mug in front of him. “Have they caught her yet?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But we will. She’ll not get away.”

“You told us that Mrs. Fox confessed, Inspector, but what made you confront her in the first place? How did you determine that she was the culprit?” Hatchet asked.

“Actually, we weren’t positive. We found a bit of lace on a nail, which was what led us to discover the hidden staircase. When I showed the fabric to Mrs. McAllister, she was fairly certain the cloth hadn’t come from any of Miss Kettering’s garments. It didn’t belong to any of the servants, either, as the material was of a very high quality which few people could afford. Then she remembered that Mrs. Fox had a green dress decorated with lace on the sleeves.”

“But why did Mrs. Fox want Miss Kettering dead?” Wiggins asked. “She’s not really a relative, so she’d not be inheriting anything.”

“I think her original idea was that she could murder Miss Kettering and then get Mr. Dorian Kettering to marry her so she could get the house,” Witherspoon said slowly. “That’s what she really wanted, you see. When she realized that the Society of the Humble and the Reverend Samuel Richards might be displacing Dorian Kettering and that he might not get anything, she decided to take action. Everyone seemed to believe that both Mr. Kettering and Mrs. Cameron might have been cut out of the estate. But what people forget is that Mrs. Fox and Miss Kettering were confidants. Mrs. Fox probably knew the truth, that the family hadn’t been cut out completely. But as Samuel Richards gained more and more influence over Olive Kettering, she probably thought there was a real possibility that Miss Kettering would change her will and leave everything to the Society of the Humble. That was a risk she couldn’t take.” The inspector reached for his tea. “Mrs. Fox wasn’t going to tolerate that situation. Even if she and Kettering didn’t marry, as long as he was an heir and owned the house, she’d at least be allowed to stay in the carriage house.”

“But you don’t know that she knew the truth, that the family was still gettin’ something. If she thought Mr. Kettering might have already been cut out of the will, what was the point of murdering Miss Kettering?” Smythe argued. “It’s a bit like shutting the barn door after the ’orses have run off.”

“Not if you laid the groundwork to challenge the will.” Mrs. Jeffries clamped her mouth shut, thinking she’d said too much and might have given the game away.

“Good observation, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon gave her an approving smile. “I can see my methods are rubbing off on you. The constable and I had come to that very conclusion; it was the only explanation for why Mrs. Fox had spent so many nights walking around the house. She was deliberately scaring Miss Kettering, hoping she would start speaking and behaving in such an odd manner that the relatives would have grounds to challenge the will. When she heard that Samuel Richards had inherited the house and a third of the estate, she told Dorian Kettering he ought to take them to court and that they deserved nothing.”

“But that was the one thing she didn’t admit to doing,” Barnes said, his expression curious. “Mind you, she was in a bit of a hurry to burn the place down so perhaps she simply didn’t have time.”

Everyone laughed.

“I think you two have done a perfectly splendid job,” Mrs. Jeffries declared.

“But it was lucky for us she confessed; otherwise we’d have had a devil of a time getting a conviction in court on the evidence we had.” Barnes drained his mug and got up. “Should I be here at my normal time, sir?” he asked the inspector. “Or are you staying home?”

“I’m feeling fine, so I’ll see you tomorrow, providing, of course, that you suffer no ill effects from the smoke.”

“Let me walk you to the door,” Mrs. Jeffries offered as she got up. As soon as the two of them were out of earshot, she said, “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

“No, you sussed it out right. Spotting that bit of lace was fortunate; otherwise, finding that passageway wouldn’t have been easy.”

“I wasn’t sure who was the killer; my idea was it could have been either Mrs. Fox or Dorian Kettering,” she admitted in a low voice. They’d reached the back door. “Both of them were good candidates for the murderer. Both of them had been in the house as children and could have known how to move about without being seen. I must say, I had originally discounted Bernadine Fox as a suspect because I couldn’t see what her motive might be. She was never in line to inherit anything.”

“You thought the motive was money, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I did.”

“So did I.” He laughed. “Instead, it was a crazy woman’s obsession.” He broke off and frowned. “Make sure you lock the place up good and tight tonight.”

“You think the inspector is in danger?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I doubt it. If Mrs. Fox has any brains at all, she’ll not be hanging about London.” He turned the knob and stepped outside. “But it’s always good to be careful, at least until we catch her.”

Mrs. Jeffries closed the door and turned to go back up the hallway. The inspector and Lady Cannonberry came out of the kitchen.

“I’m escorting Lady Cannonberry home,” he told her. “I’ll be dining with her tonight but I won’t be late.”

“That’s an excellent idea, sir,” she replied. “But wouldn’t you like to change your clothes or have a wash?”

“His clothes are fine and he can wash his face and hands at my house,” Ruth replied.

For the next hour, they discussed the case. Luty and Hatchet left and the household settled into their evening routine. They ate the evening meal, cleared the table, and then Betsy and Smythe left.

“You’re in a better mood today,” Smythe said to his wife as they crossed the garden. “Are you feelin’ better?”

“I’m fine.” She squeezed his hand. She started to tell him their wonderful news and then just as quickly decided to hold her tongue. The inspector hadn’t made an arrest as yet and there might still be some work to be done before that happened. “I know I’ve been cranky lately, but I’m much better now.”

“You’ve not been that bad, love.” He chuckled. “It’s ’ard for both of us to adjust to bein’ married. We’re both used to makin’ decisions on our own and now we’ve got to think of each other.”

“True,” she replied. She knew darn good and well that once he knew about the baby, he’d be the one who wanted to decide whether or not she ought to be out chasing clues and asking questions. Just in case something interesting cropped up, she’d wait until that crazy woman was behind bars before she told him. It was bad enough that she was going to be forced to the sidelines for the next seven or eight months as it was, she wasn’t going to give this one up until she absolutely must. “Can I borrow your key to the back door?”

“What for?” he asked curiously. “We always walk over together.”

“I know, but I’d like to do something for everyone to make up for the way I’ve been acting. Everyone’s been nice about it, but I know I’ve been horrid, especially to poor Phyllis.”

“Betsy.” He laughed. “You don’t have to do anything. Everyone understands that making changes in life is ’ard.”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “My sister sent me that wonderful cookery book and I want to make a special treat for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“You want to cook breakfast?”

She looked at him sharply. “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like my cooking?” She’d actually not made that many meals for him, as they usually ate at Upper Edmonton Gardens.

“I love yer cookin’.” He fumbled in his pocket, found the back door key, and yanked it out. Since they’d married, he’d noticed she got her feelings hurt easily. She was happy now and he wanted to keep her that way. “Here,” he said as he handed her the key. “What are you going to cook for us?”

Betsy tucked it into her pocket. “That’s to be a surprise, but I know you’ll all love it. I’m going to come over very early because it takes some time to make what I’ve got in mind.”

 

Early the next morning, Betsy yawned as she slipped through the gate into the communal garden. She carried the cookery book her sister had sent her from Canada, a tin of cinnamon, and a cone of sugar tied together in a packet of brown paper. It was still very dark outside and she was sure that if Smythe had realized how early she meant to leave the flat, he’d have insisted on accompanying her. She chuckled as she stepped onto the main path, delighted that she’d slipped out while he was still sound asleep.

A heavy mist had rolled in from the river, blanketing the garden in fog, which drifted in patches among the trees and bushes. She sobered and picked up her pace. Getting into the garden required a key or the ability to climb a six-foot wall, so she knew she was perfectly safe.

She hurried toward the house, her footsteps smacking lightly against the solid earth. She stopped suddenly as she heard a loud thump. What on earth could that be?
Thump, thump
. . . there it was again. She realized the noise was coming from the far end of the garden, from the inspector’s house.

Hanging on to her bundle, she ran down the path, coming to a halt when she was still two hundred feet away. A figure swathed in a long, black cape was standing at the small window in the rear of Upper Edmonton Gardens.

“What are you doing?” she shouted at the top of her lungs. Dropping her package, she raced toward the house, raising the alarm with her cries. “Help, help!” she called. “Someone’s breaking into the house!” She heard the sound of glass breaking and she increased her speed, charging across the small terrace just as the intruder chucked something through the window and into the storage room. Betsy grabbed at the cloak, pulling the figure away from the window, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs. From inside, Fred barked wildly. The intruder twisted around and pushed at her, but Betsy had been raised in the tough neighborhoods of the East End so she kicked out, sweeping her assailant’s legs out and sending them both sprawling onto the brick terrace. Betsy rolled onto the intruder’s back, balled up her fists, and pounded at the covered head. “You’ll not hurt my family, you’ll not, you’ll not!” Behind her, she was vaguely aware of the door opening, and then a pair of strong hands pulled her to her feet just as Fred leapt onto the spot she’d just vacated.

Inspector Witherspoon, Mrs. Jeffries, Wiggins, and Mrs. Goodge, all of them in their nightclothes, spilled out of the house.

She blinked in surprise as Smythe pulled her briefly into his arms and then thrust her behind him. She turned her head, seeing for the first time the flames leaping up at the window. “The house is on fire!” she cried.

“Go for the fire brigade.” Witherspoon tossed his police whistle to Wiggins. “And use this to summon some constables.” He rushed back into the house.

Smythe hesitated. He didn’t want the attacker escaping, but he didn’t want the inspector to fight the flames alone.

Betsy shoved Fred to one side and plopped down on the spot she’d just vacated. Fred, still snarling and barking, stood over them, standing guard. “Go help the inspector,” she ordered. “We can make sure no one gets away this time.”

Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge, not to be outdone, rushed over and the housekeeper sat down on the figure’s legs, eliciting a muffled squeal of pain from the depths of the hood. The cook, who’d grabbed a rolling pin on her way out of the house, held it up like a club over the intruder’s head.