Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (14 page)

“Really, sir? And who were they? If, of course, you don’t mind my asking.”

“One of them is a neighbor. Charles Burroughs. Nice enough chap.” Witherspoon shook salt onto his eggs. “Very cooperative. He told us something most interesting.” As he ate he told her about the interview, taking care to get all the details correct. Talking the case out with Mrs. Jeffries was always so helpful. “So you see,” he said, “I had quite a good impression of the fellow, thought he was being honest and everything until I spoke to Eloise Hartshorn. That’s when it all got terribly, terribly confusing. As a matter of fact, I think Miss Hartshorn might be lying. Could you pass me those greens?”

She complied with his request, noting that not only was he demolishing the last of the greens, but he’d also eaten all the ham. “Why do you think she might be lying, sir?”

“Because”—he scraped some more greens onto his plate—“I think she’s in love with Charles Burroughs and she’s trying to protect him. She claimed she saw Andrew Frommer leaving his own house by the back door at a quarter to four on the afternoon of the murder. She said she witnessed this from the window of Charles Burroughs’s bedroom.” He broke off as a bright, red blush swept his cheeks, and then forced himself to go on. “But that’s not true. We interviewed Mr. Burroughs’s servants on the way home this evening, and all of them testify that
Miss Hartshorn wasn’t in the Burroughs house the afternoon of the murder. So she couldn’t have been in his bedroom and couldn’t have seen what she claimed she saw.” He shook his head and popped another bite into his mouth. As he demolished his dinner he told Mrs. Jeffries about his interview with Eloise Hartshorn.

As always, she listened carefully, storing every little bit of information in her mind. Finally, when it appeared he’d told her everything, she said, “But I don’t understand why Henry Alladyce wanted you to interview Charles Burroughs in the first place. I can see why he’d give you Eloise Hartshorn’s name. But why Burroughs?”

“Oh.” Witherspoon looked surprised. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, sir, you didn’t. From what you’ve told me, Burroughs’s only connection to the family is that he lives next door. The fact that he knows Andrew Frommer beats his wife couldn’t be the reason that Alladyce sent you to him in the first place. Not unless Burroughs told Alladyce what he’d seen.”

The inspector swallowed a huge bite of egg. “He hadn’t. Alladyce thought I ought to see him because he knew that Burroughs had a gun.”

Incredulous, she stared at him. “That’s it? He was suspicious of the neighbor because of a gun? But, sir, half of London owns weapons of some sort.”

“True.” Witherspoon scanned the empty serving bowls. “But most of them aren’t revolvers. Burroughs has a revolver. The same kind of weapon used in the murder.”

“How did Alladyce know what kind of gun had been used?”

“From the newspaper.” He frowned. “Stupid of us, really, letting that information get out to the public.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew it was common practice for the police to keep some details out of the press. “How did Alladyce know that Burroughs had the gun? Are they well acquainted?”

“Not really. Alladyce only met him once, in front of the Frommer house. He knew about the gun because he happened to see Burroughs cleaning it a few weeks back. He’d taken the weapon in the garden to clean and Alladyce saw it over the fence. He said Burroughs wasn’t trying to hide what he was doing, he was simply sitting at the lawn table in his shirtsleeves cleaning his gun. Burroughs confirmed this. He admitted he’d been doing just that. Even knew when it must have happened. It was the day before the Frommer household went to Ascot.”

“I still don’t think that’s enough of a reason to consider the man a suspect,” she said, shaking her head.

“Normally I’d agree with you.” Witherspoon licked his lips. “But in this case, considering what I learned from Eloise Hartshorn, I’m glad I went to see Charles Burroughs. You see, the revolver he owns is missing. It’s completely disappeared.”

They only had time for a brief meeting the next morning. Mrs. Jeffries brought them all up-to-date on what she’d heard from the inspector. She also assured Wiggins that she’d managed to plant the idea in the inspector’s mind that he ought to interview any servants who’d recently left the Frommer household. Therefore, he could stop worrying about Emma not being able to tell her tale. By the time everyone had left to do all their own snooping, she’d still not decided what she ought to do. She sat at the table, gazing blankly ahead, trying to sift all the bits and pieces of information into
some sort of coherent pattern. But nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind.

Mrs. Goodge ushered in a young man wearing a footman’s livery. “Oh,” she said, when she spotted the housekeeper sitting at the table, “you’re still here? I thought you’d gone off with the others.”

The words weren’t rude or even unfriendly, but Mrs. Jeffries had the distinct impression the cook wanted to pump her source in private. She finally decided what she ought to do. “I was just leaving,” she said, smiling at the skinny lad as she rose to her feet and hurried over to the coat tree. Reaching for her hat, she said, “I ought to be back by tea.”

She left by the back door, hurried up to Addison Road and from there onto the Uxbridge Road. She found a hansom in front of Holland Park Gardens. “Take me to Chelsea,” she ordered, getting inside.

“None of the alibis are right, sir,” Barnes said as he and the inspector waited on Ladbrook Road for a passing hansom cab. The police station, where they’d just come from, was directly behind them. “I don’t know why people bother lyin’ to us. Do they think we don’t check up on them?”

“I’m afraid that’s precisely what most of them think.” Witherspoon raised his arm as a cab clip-clopped toward them. “Argyle Street,” the inspector instructed the driver when the hansom pulled over. As soon as he and the constable were safely inside, he allowed a sigh to escape him. Not only was this case becoming a bit of a muddle—don’t they all, he thought—but he was rather distressed about Lady Cannonberry. He’d popped over early this morning hoping to have a word with her before breakfast, only to discover that she and Mr. Pilchard were already
out and about. They’d taken the early train to Brighton. Drat. He’d so wanted to ask her to dine with him later in the week.

“Well, sir?” Barnes asked.

Witherspoon came out of his daze to find the constable staring at him expectantly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you.”

Barnes nodded sympathetically. He’d arrived at Upper Edmonton Gardens this morning just in time to see the inspector leaving Ruth Cannonberry’s front porch. The glum expression on Witherspoon’s face and a discreet question or two had elicited enough information for the constable to guess at the cause of the inspector’s preoccupation. Ah, first love, he thought, it didn’t matter whether one was fifteen or fifty. It hit with the force of a gale, spun the unlucky man to and fro a few times and then knocked him on his backside. Poor fella. “I asked who we wanted to question first?”

The inspector forced himself to keep his mind on the case. “Why don’t we see who’s available?” he finally said. “It could well be that Mr. Frommer is at his office.”

But Mr. Frommer wasn’t at his office; he was at home. When the butler led the two policemen into the study, Frommer looked up from his desk with a puzzled, abstracted expression. It took him a moment before he recognized his visitors. “Back again? Have you caught the killer yet?”

“No, sir, we haven’t,” Witherspoon replied.

“Why not?” Frommer put down his pen and leaned back in the chair. “What’s taking so long? It’s most awkward for me, being part of a household where an unsolved murder has been committed. My constituents don’t like it. The party doesn’t like it. I don’t like it.
Now, why can’t you fellows catch the lunatic that did this thing?”

Witherspoon hadn’t much cared for Mr. Frommer the first time he met him. Since hearing Burroughs’s contention that the man was a wife beater, he cared even less for him. He’d no doubt Burroughs had been telling the truth, though as to why he felt that way he couldn’t say. But the inspector had long ago learned to listen to his inner voice, and right now that voice was telling him this man was a blackguard and a cad. However, that didn’t mean he was a killer. “I expect it would be easier to catch the murderer,” he said carefully, “if we didn’t have to waste so much time sorting out the lies people tell us.”

Frommer’s self-satisfied expression vanished. His eyes grew wary. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you, sir?” Witherspoon walked closer to the desk. “You told us you came to London on the four o’clock train, sir. But that’s not true. We’ve a witness who placed you on the two forty-five.”

Frommer shot to his feet. “Your witness is lying. You were already here when I arrived, and that was well into the evening. It had gone half-past six.”

“Our witness isn’t lying, sir,” Barnes said firmly. “He’s a policeman. He stood right next to you on the platform at Ascot and then watched you get into a first-class compartment. When the train arrived at London, he saw you get off.”

“He’s mistaken,” Frommer sputtered. “It wasn’t me.”

“It’s no mistake, sir,” Witherspoon said. “He knew quite well who you were. You’re the MP for his district. Now, sir, why don’t you tell us where you were on the afternoon of the murder?”

Speechless, Frommer gaped at the two men and then
flopped back into his chair. “All right,” he muttered, “I’ll tell you. But it’s to go no further than this room. You must give me your word on that.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Witherspoon said gently. “I may have to give evidence in court and I can’t promise to keep any information secret.”

“Now, see here,” Frommer snapped. “It’s a matter vital to the national interest—”

“No, sir, I’m afraid it isn’t.” Witherspoon sighed inwardly. Honestly, people sometimes thought the police were such fools. “The chief inspector has already been in contact with the home secretary and Whitehall. You were doing nothing official or even unofficial in your capacity as a member of Parliament that afternoon. As a matter of fact, according to your chief whip, you missed an important meeting of your own party that day. Now, could you please tell us where you were?”

“Yes, Andrew, do tell us.”

The inspector and Barnes swiveled around to see MaryAnne Frommer standing in the open doorway. Though she was covered from head to toe in mourning black, the bonnet on her head and the black parasol she carried signaled the fact that she was getting ready to go out. She didn’t take her eyes off her husband. “Well, where were you?” she goaded. “You weren’t at Ascot. You weren’t at your office and you certainly weren’t helping any of your constituents.”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” he finally sputtered.

“True, you don’t.” She smiled sweetly, a smile that took fifteen years off her middle-aged face. “But I do believe the inspector is waiting for a reply.”

“Your wife is correct, sir,” Witherspoon interjected hastily. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to do; he only knew he didn’t wish to give Mr. Frommer further
reason to get angry with his wife. “We do need an answer.” He looked at Barnes. “Could you please escort Mrs. Frommer into the drawing room and take her statement?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Frommer said. “I know why you’re here and I’m quite prepared to tell you the truth.”

The inspector was very, very confused. “Er, if you’d like to go with the constable…I’m sure he’ll be pleased to take your statement.”

“There’s no reason to go anywhere,” she said flatly. “You’re here to find out why I lied about the day my father was killed, aren’t you?”

Frommer shot to his feet again. “What are you talking about, MaryAnne?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Andrew.” She pushed past the policemen and flopped down on the chair opposite her husband’s desk. “I was on the two forty-five train that day. With you.”