Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (13 page)

“I’m sorry.” Wiggins shook his head, his expression glum. “I didn’t ’ave time to get ’er name.”

“Not to worry, lad,” Smythe said cheerfully. “I think I know who she is. Eloise Hartshorn. She’s one of the people the inspector interviewed today. She’s a right beautiful woman, that’s for certain. I can see why Frommer…” He trailed off as he caught sight of the fierce glare Betsy was directing at him.

“You said there were two things you needed to tell us, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “What was the other one?”

Wiggins took a deep breath. He wanted to get this part right. “I learned a bit more about that missin’ footman from the Frommer household,” he said. He told them what he’d learned from the gardener. He took great pains
to make sure he got every detail right and made doubly sure he repeated the gardener’s assertion that the lad had disappeared to protect Mary Anne Frommer. “Anyway,” he finished, “I was thinkin’ I’d ’ave a nip over to St. George’s and see if anyone there knows anythin’ about this lad. It’s important we find ’im.”

“Do you really think this boy knows anything?” Hatchet asked.

“’Course ’e does,” Wiggins declared. “’E scarpered, didn’t ’e?”

“But ’e scarpered the morning before the murder took place. So ’ow could ’e know anythin’? Smythe asked thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, ’e ’eard somethin’ or saw somethin’ earlier that scared ’im.”

“You should pursue locating the lad,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But do please be careful.”

When Wiggins nodded, she looked at the others. “Who would like to go next? Betsy?”

“I didn’t learn anything.” Betsy wrinkled her nose at the footman. “None of the shopkeepers I spoke to had anything interesting to say. Mr. Frommer pays his bills promptly and most of the household shopping is done by the housekeeper, not Mrs. Frommer. No one knew anything about Mr. Ashbury.”

“Don’t be discouraged, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said stoutly. “You’ll do better tomorrow.”

“I might as well go next,” Smythe said. “I’ve not got much, but I did follow the inspector to a couple a places. The first one was right next door to the Frommer ’ouse. Bachelor lives there and ’is name is Burroughs, Charles Burroughs. I couldn’t find out anythin’ else about ’im, though. There wasn’t time before the inspector come out. Then ’e went to talk to this Eloise Hartshorn.”

“The pretty one?” Betsy asked archly. She smiled sweetly at the coachman.

“Right.” He grinned. “She were pretty. The inspector was in there a fair amount of time. When he come out he went back to the station. As it were gettin’ late, I decided to nip on back ’ere.” Smythe didn’t tell them that he’d also nipped into his bank and taken out a wad of cash. He had an appointment tonight and he was going to need it.

“Mrs. Goodge, have you anything to report?” Mrs. Jeffries’s own news wasn’t so important that she was in any rush to impart it.

“Not really. I only had a couple of people stop in today.” She shook her head in disgust. “Good thing, too, as I’d not much to feed them. But I’ve got the word out, and tomorrow, there’ll be an army of people trooping through here. Now that I’ve got them names from Smythe”—she shot the coachman a grateful smile—“that’ll give me a lot to work with.” Her broad face suddenly creased in a thoughtful frown. “But there’s something I’d like to know. Where’d that cake that Ashbury served for tea come from?”

“The kitchen?” Wiggins suggested.

“Of course it come from a kitchen,” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently. “But what kitchen? The Frommer household had been on holiday for two weeks. You don’t leave a cake sittin’ in the larder for weeks on end.”

“But you bake our Christmas cake in August,” Wiggins argued.

“This wasn’t a bloomin’ Christmas cake,” the cook snapped.

“It was walnut,” the housekeeper murmured.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Goodge said promptly.

“And you’re right to wonder where it came from,” the
housekeeper continued. She looked at the maid. “As a matter of fact, that’s something you ought to do straightaway. Tomorrow. Check with all the bakers in the area. Find out who bought that cake.”

“Are you thinkin’ it might ’ave been the killer?” Smythe asked. “Surely no one is that stupid.”

“You’d be surprised how stupid some criminals are,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But you’re probably right. I doubt the killer walked into a local baker’s shop and bought it. But someone must have. I do think that we ought to know who.”

“Maybe Ashbury brought it from the country,” Luty suggested. “From what I hear, he’s about as cheap as they come.”

“Is that all you found out, madam?” Hatchet grinned broadly. “That the victim was a cheapskate?”

Luty frowned at her butler. “It’s early days yet in this investigation. Don’t ya worry yourself about me, Hatchet. I’ll find out plenty.”

“In other words, madam”—the butler smiled gleefully—“that is all you found out.”

“But I thought you was eager to tell us something earlier today?” Mrs. Goodge said. “Something you heard from your friend in the House of Lords.”

“I was,” Luty replied. “But seein’ as how Wiggins and Smythe has already mentioned Eloise Hartshorn, they’ve kinda stole my thunder. That’s really all he had to tell me. He was just repeatin’ some gossip. The only other thing he mentioned was the scandal involvin’ Ashbury’s son, Jonathan, but that was years ago.”

“He disinherted the boy, didn’t he?” Mrs. Goodge nodded. “That’s what my sources said. The lad married a servant girl, a Russian immigrant, and they left the country.”

Luty nodded. “The boy and his family died when the wagon they was in got washed away. Just goes to show what kind of man Ashbury was. He wouldn’t even help his own flesh and blood.”

“You saw Dr. Bosworth today?” Betsy asked Mrs. Jeffries. She rather liked the good doctor, and better yet, she knew it niggled Smythe that she would bring the man’s name up. She shot the coachman a quick glance out of the corner of her eyes. He looked annoyed.

“Yes, I went around to the hospital right after tea.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “He’d not done the postmortem, but he’d managed to have a look at Dr. Potter’s report. It’s as we thought. Ashbury was killed by a bullet, probably from a revolver.”

Smythe pushed his way through the crowded, noisy pub, one hand over his pants pocket to protect against pickpockets as he scanned the small room. He spotted a familiar figure leaning up against the bar.

“Hello, Blimpey.” Smythe wedged himself in next to the short, rotund fellow. “Glad to see yer on time.”

“Am I ever late when there’s money involved?” Blimpey asked with a wide grin. He wore a brown-and-white-checked coat that had seen better days, a dark, porkpie hat covered with so much grime its original color was anyone’s guess and a wilted gray shirt that had once been white. A bright red scarf was tossed jauntily around his squat neck. Blimpey nodded at his empty glass. “Wouldn’t say no to another.”

Smythe caught the publican’s eye. “Another one ’ere,” he called, pointing to Blimpey, “and I’ll ’ave a pint of yer best bitter.”

“Ta,” Blimpey said amiably. “Well, me lad, how ya been keepin’?”

“I’m doin’ all right,” Smythe replied, pulling out a handful of coins and slapping them on the counter as the barman put their drinks in front of them. “Same as always.”

“How’s that sweet girl of yours?” Blimpey said chattily. “My, but she’s a lovely one. When the two of you tyin’ the knot? I could tell by the way ya hovered over her so carefully that she’s right special to ya.”

“You saw me and Betsy? Where?”

“At the Crystal Palace.” Blimpey smiled slyly. “A few months ago. It was at the Photographic Exhibition. Grand, wasn’t it?”

Surprised, Smythe retorted, “You was at the exhibition?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Blimpey countered. “You’re not the only one who can get out and about. I like lookin’ at interestin’ things too.”

“More like ya was pickin’ pockets.” Smythe reached for his beer. He wasn’t sure how he felt about someone like Blimpey knowing too much about his courtship of Betsy. It made him feel vulnerable. He didn’t mind Mrs. Jeffries and the others knowing he was crazy about the girl; that was different, that was family.

Blimpey’s face fell; he actually looked hurt. “I’ll have you know, I don’t do that anymore,” he said with dignity. “I don’t have to. My current occupation is far too lucrative. Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re wantin’ from me tonight?”

Blimpey’s current occupation was the reason that Smythe had arranged to meet him. After years of petty thieving and picking pockets, the man had realized his phenomenal memory could be put to much better use than dodging coppers.

So now he bought and sold information. His clients
ranged from people like Smythe to politicians and, on occasion, even Scotland Yard itself.

“No offense was meant,” Smythe said apologetically. Not that he was overly concerned with hurting Blimpey Groggnis’s tender feelings; he just didn’t want him so annoyed he didn’t do a good, quick job. Smythe felt a bit funny about his current mission. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair. Especially as it was becoming a bit of a habit. He’d hired the man on several of the inspector’s cases now. But in his own defense, he thought quickly, he did plenty of investigating himself. It just seemed silly to run all over London trying to find out things when for a few bob he could pay Blimpey and be sure of getting it fast and quick. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it, either.

He had plenty of money. More than he knew what to do with, and that was causing him no end of bother as well. It was one of the reasons he couldn’t “tie the knot” with Betsy.

“None taken.” Blimpey’s good humor was restored as quickly as it had disappeared. “Now, who am I onto this time?”

“Did you hear about that murder at the MP’s house?”

“All of London’s ’eard of that one.” Blimpey chugged his drink. “Andrew Frommer. It was his wife’s father who was killed, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” Smythe agreed. “And I want to know everything there is to know about both of them. The husband and the wife.”

“You think she might have done her old man in?” Blimpey asked conversationally. Nothing surprised him.

“It’s possible.” Smythe shrugged. “I’ve got a few more names fer you as well. Find out what ya can about Charles Burroughs; ’e lives right next door to the Frommers.”

Blimpey didn’t bother to write anything down. “Who else?”

“Eloise Hartshorn. She lives at number four Tacner Place in Chelsea. I think she might be Frommer’s mistress. Then there’s a bloke named Henry Alladyce. ’E was the victim’s partner. They ran a shipping agency over on Russell Street. That’s right off the East India Docks.”

“I know where it is.” Blimpey finished off his pint. “Is that it, then?”

Smythe nodded. “Yeah, for right now. How long do ya think it’ll take to find out anythin’?”

“Meet me here at noon tomorrow,” Blimpey replied. “I ought to have something by then.”

The inspector arrived home for dinner only an hour past his usual time. “I do hope dinner is ready,” he commented as he handed his hat to Mrs. Jeffries. “I’m quite famished. By the way, do you happen to know how long Lady Cannonberry’s houseguest is staying?”

“Dinner is on the table, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries led him down the hall and into the dining room. “Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely meal for you, sir.” She gestured at the table. “She thought you might enjoy a cold supper, sir, as it’s so hot today.” Actually, the cook had been too busy using her ovens to bake for her sources to bother making much of a meal for the inspector. Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries had been the ones to put together his dinner from what fixings they’d found in the dry larder.

“Excellent.” He pulled out his chair, whipped his serviette off the plate and reached for the platter of sliced ham. He speared a double portion and dumped it onto the china. “This does look good.”

“I’ve no idea how long Mr. Pilchard is staying with Lady Cannonberry,” she continued. She reached for a
bowl of fresh mixed greens and handed it to him. “How was your day, sir? Are you making any progress on the case?”

“Well”—he made a face as he popped two hard-boiled eggs next to the greens—“I think so. I interviewed two other people who might have had a reason to kill the victim. But honestly it’s all such a muddle, I can’t make heads nor tails of it.”