Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (12 page)

“Well…” Wiggins hesitated, he didn’t want to overplay his hand here, but he did want to hear as much as possible. “It
is
odd, Boyd leavin’ like that. I mean, it’s not like ’im. Makes you wonder.”

The gardener gave him a sharp look. “I thought you said you was his friend.”

“I am,” Wiggins protested. “But it’s odd.”

“It’s not a bit odd.” He yanked a mat off the stack. “He’s devoted to Mrs. Frommer, he is. I reckon he took off for one reason and one reason only. Because she told him to.”

“I’m thinkin’ maybe a guinea’s not enough,” the cabbie said to Smythe. They were trotting along St. Martin’s Lane. Bored with sitting in the four-wheeler, Smythe had come up and taken a spot next to the driver. “I mean, you’ve tied my rig up all day.”

“Bollocks,” Smythe retorted. “Who do you think you’re kiddin’, mate? You’d not make a guinea for one day’s work, so don’t go tryin’ to up the price ’ere.” It wasn’t the money he objected to, it was the idea of being taken advantage of that set his teeth on edge. He glared at the driver.

The intimidating expression obviously worked, for the poor fellow almost fell off the seat as he tried to pull away from his frowning passenger. “All right, all right,” he said quickly. “You can’t blame a bloke fer tryin’. It’s tough to make ends meet these days. I’m out on this rig for twelve, sometimes even fourteen hours a day. I’ve got a wife and three kids to feed. I didn’t mean no harm.”

Smythe sighed and stifled the shaft of guilt that crawled out of his gut. He didn’t like being taken advantage of, but he couldn’t really blame the man for trying. He knew what it was like to be poor. He’d been poor most of his life. “No offense taken. Just a minute, now; they’ve stopped. Drive on past and pull on ahead of them.”

Smythe turned his body away from the hansom as they trotted past. As soon as the four-wheeler pulled in at the curb, he whipped his head around and saw the inspector and Barnes get out. They had just started up the stairs of a lovely, small white house when the door flew open and
one of the most beautiful women Smythe had ever seen stepped out.

Elegantly dressed in a teak-colored afternoon gown, matching hat and gloves, she had exquisite features and a slender figure. She spoke to the two men, and a moment later they disappeared inside the house.

Smythe jumped down off the seat. “Stay here,” he ordered the driver in a soft voice. Taking care to avoid being seen, he nipped across the road to a tobacconist’s on the corner. He didn’t waste time trying to be subtle. What was the use of being rich as sin if he couldn’t use his money to serve the cause of justice? Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a couple of florins and slapped them on the counter. The old woman folding newspapers didn’t even look up; she merely put her wrinkled hand on the coins. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Information,” he said. She looked up then, her expression curious. He pointed to the house. “Who lives there?”

“There? That house.” The old crone laughed. “Why, it’s that fancy woman that lives there, sir. Her name is Hartshorn, Eloise Hartshorn.”

“Please sit down, gentlemen,” Eloise Hartshorn said as she led them into a small, very feminine-looking sitting room and gestured at an ivory-colored settee. The walls were done in pale pink, the curtains were cream-colored lace and a fawn-colored carpet covered the floor.

Barnes and Witherspoon both sat. The inspector tried not to stare, but it was really very difficult. Miss Hartshorn was quite a lovely woman. Small, slender and titian-haired, she had delicate features and lovely blue eyes.

Removing her gloves, she gracefully sat down on the love seat opposite the settee. Tossing the gloves to one side, she folded her hands in her lap and smiled patiently. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Er, uh, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Roland Ashbury,” Witherspoon said.

Her smile disappeared and her expression became serious. “I’m surprised it took you this long to get around to me. I haven’t been hiding, you know.”

“Hiding?” Witherspoon repeated in confusion. “Goodness, Miss Hartshorn, we know that. We simply didn’t realize you’d anything to do with Mr. Ashbury until after we’d spoken to Henry Alladyce.”

“So you learned about me from Henry, did you?” She shrugged, the gracefulness of her movement making the gesture look eloquent. “I knew we wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet much longer. Not that it mattered.” She laughed. “Roland was such an idiot. He actually was stupid enough to think I’d care if he went running to Andrew.”

“Running to Andrew?” Witherspoon said. “You mean Andrew Frommer?” Alladyce had only said that Miss Hartshorn disliked the victim; he hadn’t told them why.

“Who else would I mean, Inspector.” She sighed and leaned back against the overstuffed pillow of the settee. “Roland was a despicable man. I loathed him. He tried to blackmail me. But I wasn’t having any of it. I told him to go right ahead and tell Andrew everything. I was finished with Andrew anyway. God knows what I ever saw in the man in the first place.” She gestured helplessly. “Perhaps he turned my head because he was a member of Parliament. In any case, it doesn’t matter. Once I discovered what brute he was, I wasn’t interested anymore.” She laughed again. “It really took the wind out of Roland’s sails when I told him that too, silly fool. I didn’t care if he did tell Andrew about Charles and me.”

Barnes looked at the inspector. So far, they were getting far more than they’d hoped. “Are you saying you were once…er…involved with Mr. Frommer and that Mr. Ashbury tried to blackmail you because he’d discovered you were now involved with Mr. Burroughs?”

Witherspoon nodded gratefully at the constable. Fellow knew just the right way to put things.

“That’s exactly what happened,” she said. “There’s no reason for me to lie about it. Far too many people know about me. Most of Andrew’s servants knew and Mary Anne suspected we were seeing each other. Not that she cared, mind you. And after having gotten to know Andrew better, I can understand why.”

“How long were you involved with Mr. Frommer?” Witherspoon asked.

“About six months,” she replied. “Roland Ashbury found out that Andrew and I were seeing each other. I think he followed Andrew here one afternoon. The day before he went to their country house in Ascot, Roland showed up on my doorstep. He demanded money to keep quiet. I laughed in his face. He said if I didn’t give him money—quite a bit of money—he’d tell Andrew I was now seeing Charles Burroughs. I told him to go right ahead, that it would save me a great deal of trouble and a very unpleasant scene.”

“I see.” Witherspoon was flabbergasted. “Did he go to Mr. Frommer?”

“I’m sure he did,” she said nonchalantly. “But I don’t think that’s why Andrew killed him. Andrew would murder for money or power, but he certainly wouldn’t kill over losing me.”

“You’re accusing Mr. Frommer of murdering his father-in-law?” Barnes exclaimed. “What reason could he have for wanting Mr. Ashbury dead?”

That was precisely what the inspector wanted to know.

Eloise Hartshorn hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I’m not sure,” she began. “All I know is that Roland Ashbury didn’t seem unduly surprised when I told him I wasn’t paying him a penny. He simply sneered at me and
said if I wouldn’t pay, there was someone else who would. I can only guess that he meant Andrew.”

“But I thought he was in awe of his son-in-law?” Witherspoon said. “Our information has made it very clear that Mr. Ashbury wanted nothing more than to stay in Mr. Frommer’s good graces. Are you sure he wasn’t referring to Mr. Burroughs?”

“Don’t be absurd. Charles was no more likely to pay that pompous fool than I was,” she snapped. “Why should he?”

“Perhaps to protect both his and your reputation,” Witherspoon suggested. He was only guessing, of course. But sometimes even the wildest conjecture might turn out to hit the mark.

“You are joking, Inspector, aren’t you?” She looked very amused. “Women like me don’t have reputations. I should have thought someone in your profession would have realized that. Besides, Andrew Frommer wanted Roland dead. Furthermore, he was there the afternoon the man was shot. I know; I saw him coming out of the house.”

“You
saw
him?” Barnes prompted. “Where were you?”

She smiled triumphantly. “Right next door. You can see the back of the Frommer house from Charles’s bedroom window. At four o’clock, Andrew Frommer came running out the back door like the devil himself was on his heels.”

Everyone was on time for the afternoon meeting. Mrs. Jeffries, who’d gone on an errand of her own and then spent the remainder of the day going over what little information they’d acquired, was eager to hear from the others. “Who would like to start?” she asked.

Wiggins bobbed his head. “Let me. I’ve ’eard plenty and I’m afraid I’ll forget it if I don’t get it out.” When no one objected, he plunged straight in. “I’ve got two things to tell. The first one I ’eard this mornin’. I ’ad a chat with a shopkeeper.” He tossed Betsy an apologetic glance, even though he’d apologized special-like before their botched-up morning meeting. “And ’e give me an earful.” He gave them all the details he’d learned from his encounter with Nat Hopkins. His voice rose in excitement as he told them of Andrew Frommer’s “fancy woman” and the fact that young Emma had actually seen her.

“Did you get her name?” Betsy interrupted eagerly.

Wiggins’s face fell. “No, I was goin’ to, but ya see, I think I might ’ave made a muck-up of the whole situation.”

“Muck-up?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “In what way, Wiggins?”

He swallowed nervously. “I told Nat Hopkins who I worked for; I told ’im I worked for the inspector. Well, I ’ad to say somethin’, I’d been asking the feller questions and ’e was gettin’ a mite suspicious, so when he was moanin’ that the coppers weren’t goin’ to come around and question ’is niece, I thought ’ere’s my chance to learn even more. So I told ’im who I worked for, thinkin’ ’e’d keep on talkin’.” Wiggins sagged in his chair. “But it didn’t work out, ya see. Right after I said that, is wife come along and shouted for ’im to come ’elp ’er. I was thinkin’ I’d find a way to tell the inspector ’e ought to go along and interview this Emma. I was goin’ to do that at tea this mornin’ when the inspector showed up so unexpectedly, but there weren’t a good way to bring it up, not with Lady Cannonberry bringin’ that Mr. Pilchard with ’er and the inspector actin’ so funny.”

No one said a word. It was a given that while in the midst of the investigation none of them were supposed to mention they worked for Inspector Witherspoon. Better to be discreet than take the chance of their inspector finding out members of his own household were questioning witnesses. But as they’d all found reason in the past to violate this rule, no one wanted to criticize Wiggins.

Mrs. Jeffries’s expression was thoughtful. “Don’t worry, Wiggins, we’ll find a way to get the information to him. What’s this girl’s full name?”

“All I ’eard was ’Emma,’” he replied, “but she lives with Nat Hopkins and ’e owns the shop down on Badgett Street around the corner from the Frommer house.”

“Too bad you didn’t get the name of Frommer’s fancy woman,” Mrs. Goodge mused. “That would have been right useful. At least it gives a reason why Andrew Frommer might want to murder his father-in-law. Maybe he got tired of putting up with the old bloke and did him in to make sure he couldn’t tell anyone anything.”