Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (10 page)

“Oh. I guess then I’d best wait until this afternoon’s meeting to tell everyone what I found out early this morning.” Betsy sank back against her chair, her expression glum.

Their plan to meet before Lady Cannonberry and her guest arrived had gone awry. No one, save Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge, had been available at ten o’clock. Everyone else had been late.

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair to Smythe to have a meeting now,” the housekeeper offer.

“Fiddlesticks,” Luty cried. “I’m bustin’ to tell what I found out. I was out at the crack of dawn this mornin’.”

“I don’t see why you’re so proud of yourself, madam.” Hatchet sniffed disapprovingly. “You ought to be ashamed. Waking up a member of the House of Lords at six
A.M.
is unforgivable.”

Luty grinned. “You’re just jealous ’cause I got to him first.”

“Hmmph.” Hatchet pursed his lips.

“Can it wait, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “I really don’t like the idea of Smythe missing out, especially as I’m quite sure he had something to tell us all too. He acted quite eager when the inspector was here.”

Luty made a face. Eager as she was to share her information, she wanted to be fair too. “Oh, all right, then. I’ll wait till this afternoon. But if someone else comes up with the same thing I found out, I’m goin’ to be madder than a wet hen.”

“What time are we meeting this afternoon, then?” Mrs. Goodge asked bluntly. “I need to know, as I’ve got a lot to do. I’m going to have to restock my supplies.” She glared at the inspector’s empty plate. “Never seen the man eat so much at one sitting.”

“Why don’t we meet at five o’clock?” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “Hopefully Smythe will have returned by then.”

“And what do we do in the meantime?” Wiggins asked. He didn’t fancy talking to anymore shopkeepers. One time Betsy might forgive; she was a good-hearted girl, after all. But twice, no; she’d box his ears if he poached on her patch again.

“We do precisely as Betsy has suggested.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly at the maid. “We concentrate on learning as much as we can about the victim. Wiggins, I think you ought to visit the Frommer house and see if you can make contact with a servant. Perhaps locate the footman who left before you could speak to him yesterday.” She looked at the maid.

“I know,” Betsy said. “I’ll go back and have a thorough go at the shopkeepers and”—she gave Wiggins an impish grin—“anyone else I see hanging about.”

“There’s still plenty for me to do,” Luty announced gleefully. “I’ll drop in on a new friend of mine that’s got a few connections. She knows what’s what in this town.”

“Who?” Hatchet demanded suspiciously. “Is it someone I know?”

“Now just never you mind.” Luty brushed him off
with a wave of her hand. “You just drop me off on Park Lane and send the carriage back at four.”

“Hmmph.” Hatchet stood up as well. “In that case, madam, I shall endeavor to follow up on my own leads. I take it we’re free to find out whatever we can about the entire Frommer household?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

The cook began stacking plates onto a tray she whipped out from under the table. “I’d best get crackin’. Mrs. Collins from next door has a laundry boy comin’ in about ten minutes, and later this afternoon Lady Afton’s dressmaker will be in the neighborhood. She always stops in for a cuppa.” She frowned at the empty scone plate. “Let’s just hope they like Victoria sponge; that’s about all I’ve got left.”

Panting heavily, Smythe skidded around the corner just in time to see the inspector’s hansom—at least he hoped it was the inspector’s—halt at the Uxbridge Road. Thanking his lucky stars for the heavy traffic, he spotted a four-wheeler dropping off a fare just up the road. Keeping his gaze glued to the cab he was almost sure contained the inspector, he ran toward the wheeler and leapt on board. “Follow that hansom,” he ordered the surprised driver. “And don’t let ’im see ya.”

“Now ’ow am I goin’ to do that?” the driver asked. “Anyone with eyes in ’is ’ead can turn about and see a bloody great thing like this”—he smacked the seat—“on his tail.”

“All right, men, just keep back and try not to get spotted,” Smythe snapped, and pulled a fistful of cash out of his pocket. “I’ve got a guinea here on top of the fare if you can do it.”

“You’re on, mate,” the driver said cheerfully.

As it turned out, the four-wheeler had no trouble keeping up with the hansom. Smythe breathed a little easier as they followed the cab up the Uxbridge Road and approached the neighborhood where the murder took place. That increased the likelihood that he was following the right hansom. Any lingering doubts vanished when the hansom turned onto the Grays Inn Road and few minutes later onto Argyle Street.

Smythe kept his eyes glued to the cab as it pulled up in front of the Frommer house. “Go past them and pull up a bit futher up the road,” he ordered the driver.

The four-wheeler moved another fifty yards and then pulled into the pavement. “This far enough?” the driver asked.

Smythe hesitated. It was close enough for him to get a good look at what was going on, but was it far enough away to keep the inspector from getting suspicious? “This’ll do,” he called softly.

He stuck his head out and watched as Witherspoon and Barnes stood on the pavement talking softly. Finally they turned and started toward the row of houses, but it wasn’t the Frommer home at which they stopped; it was the one next door. Taken aback, Smythe watched the inspector and Barnes walk up to the front door and bang the knocker.

“Cor blimey,” he muttered. “That’s odd.” Mrs. Jeffries had already told them that the police had taken statements from me neighbors, none of whom had heard or seen a thing. If that were true, what was the inspector up to?

“Wait ’ere,” he instructed the driver.

“Not to worry, mate,” he said, “I’m not goin’ nowhere. Not without my guinea.”

Keeping a sharp eye on the doorway through which the
inspector and Barnes had disappeared, Smythe got out. He’d have to be quick about this; he didn’t want the inspector coming out and haring off on him. Smythe stood on the pavement and examined the surrounding area, looking for anyone who could give him the information he needed. “Ah.” He grinned as he saw a housemaid scrubbing the front steps of a grand house just up near the corner. She’d do. She’d do just fine.

“I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t really know what I can do to help you. I’ve already made a statement.” Charles Burroughs smiled disarmingly. He was a tall, handsome, dark-complected man who appeared to be in his late thirties. His mouth was wide and generous under a sharp blade of a nose, and his eyes were a dark, almost sapphire blue. As the sun spread out across his high cheekbones, it revealed deep lines on his face. “Yesterday two police constables interviewed me and my entire household. We told them everything we knew, but I’m afraid it wasn’t very much.”

“Yes, sir, we’re aware of that,” Witherspoon replied. “But we’d like to ask a few more questions if you don’t mind.”

“Fine, then.” Burroughs stepped back from the door and held it open. “Do come in.”

As soon as the two policemen stepped inside, Burroughs closed the door behind them and started down the hall. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea,” he said. “It’s the staff’s day out. I’m here alone.”

“That’s quite all right, sir,” Witherspoon replied as they walked through a set of wide oak double doors into the drawing room. “We’re not thirsty.” He took a quick look around, carefully noting that the place was exquisitely and expensively furnished. The drapes were heavy
red damask, the carpet a richly patterned Wilton and the settee and chairs upholstered in bold, bright reds and blues. A huge, hand-carved rosewood cabinet dominated one end of the room. Through its glass doors, china figurines, gold plates and silver knickknacks could be seen. Tables covered with delicate cream-covered lace were at both ends of the settee, and opposite the door, a fireplace with a carved marble mantel held a triple set of ornately gilded mirrors.

Burroughs gestured at the settee. “Please be seated, gentlemen.” The inspector and Barnes settled themselves as Burroughs took a seat on the chair next to them. He clasped his hands together and smiled, waiting patiently.

“Mr. Burroughs, how long have you lived here?” Witherspoon asked.

Burroughs raised his eyebrows slightly. “Three months, Inspector.”

“And where did you live before you moved to London?”

Burroughs crossed his legs. “I don’t see what my movements have to do with Mr. Ashbury’s death,” he said.

“I realize it sounds quite an unusual question,” the inspector replied, “but we do have a valid reason for asking.”

“May I know that reason?”

The inspector hated situations like this. On the one hand, he was such an essentially honest man that it was difficult to look another human being in the eyes and tell a lie. On the other hand, if he let Burroughs know the real reason he was asking, it might harm the investigation.

“We’ve had a report that you’re in the habit of quarreling with your neighbors, sir,” Barnes said quickly.
“And that these quarrels led to violence at your last place of residence.”

Burroughs stared at them for a moment and then burst into laughter. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” he finally said, “but I assure you, gentlemen, I do not quarrel with my neighbors. I’m actually considered quite an amiable fellow. However, if you want to confirm my story, you’ll have to send someone to Denver, Colorado. That’s where I last resided. My next-door neighbors were a lovely family called Robb. I left all of them hale and hearty, and most kindly disposed to me, when I came here.”

Witherspoon shot his constable a grateful look. Barnes had managed to get the needed information out of the witness without revealing everything that Henry Alladyce had told them. The inspector made a mental note to send a cable to the authorities in Denver.

“You’re an American, sir?” he asked. “Born and bred.” Burroughs replied.

“Then you never met Roland Ashbury before you came to live next door to him?” The inspector wanted to be crystal clear on that point.

“Absolutely not, sir.” Burroughs shrugged. “Unless, of course, he happened to come to Denver. In which case, I don’t recall ever meeting the man.”

“Had you ever met Mrs. Mary Anne Frommer?” Barnes asked.

“No, not until I came here.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward them. “But I will tell you, if anyone had a reason to end up with a bullet in his brain, it’s that brute of a husband of Mrs. Frommer’s. He’s the most diabolical man I’ve ever met. He treats her terribly.”

“In what way?” Witherspoon didn’t want to be sidetracked, but at the same time he wanted to gather as much
information as possible. “How did he treat her badly? Did he beat her?”

“He did.” Burroughs hesitated. “Well, I never actually saw the man raise his hand to her; if I had, I’d have stopped him. Where I come from we don’t take the beating of helpless females lightly.”

“Then how do you know he beat his wife?” Witherspoon pressed. Gracious, he was getting a lot of information at one time. He only hoped that Mrs. Jeffries was right and that his “inner mind” was cataloging it all correctly. He wasn’t sure he could even remember much of it.

“I’ve seen the bruises,” Burroughs stated flatly. “Her upper arms were black-and-blue. When I asked her about them, she insisted she’d bumped into the side of a tallboy. I didn’t believe her.”

“So you’re friendly enough with the Frommers to ask such a personal question?” Barnes asked.

Burroughs hesitated for a split second before answering. “That’s a difficult question. I’m not quite sure how to reply. I’m not really all that friendly with anyone in the Frommer household. As a matter of fact, after seeing what kind of people they really are, I’ve taken some pains to avoid them.”

“Then how did you come to see the bruises?” the constable pressed. “Did she show them to you?”Barnes had seen enough domestic violence to know that most women who’d been beaten were so ashamed they went to great pains to hide the marks of their ill-treatment.

“No,” he admitted. “It’s a rather awkward situation and I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong impression. I saw the bruises out in the garden. As you know, our gardens are joined at the back; they’re separated by a stone wall. I was out watching some starlings in the oak tree
when I happened to see Mrs. Frommer in her nightdress; she was confronting her father, having some sort of argument with him. They were on the other side of their garden, which is quite wide, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying…. Also, I believe both of them were deliberately keeping their voices down. Mr. Ashbury started to walk away; she grabbed his arm and pulled the old man back, then she yanked the sleeve of her nightdress up to the shoulder and shoved her arm right under his nose.” He pursed his lips in disgust. “Ashbury pushed her aside and walked away. I couldn’t believe it. Even from where I stood, I could tell she was terribly distraught, terribly upset.”