Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (15 page)

“Now, lad, why don’t you drink up?” Mrs. Goodge handed the footman a third cup of tea. “Would you like more sponge?”

“Umm. yes.” Matthew Piker nodded vigorously as he stuffed the last bite of scone into his mouth. He completely ignored the crumbs that fell from his lips and dotted the chest of his dark blue footman’s uniform. “This is good. Mrs. Hampton’s a good mistress, but she’s a bit stingy with food. I’m always hungry.”

“So many of them are like that.” Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue sympathetically and silently sent up a prayer of thanks that her aunt Elberta had finally come in useful. She’d accidentally dropped the box containing Elberta’s rambling letters when she’d been rummaging
about in her bureau drawer for one of her “special” recipes. When she’d picked the letter up, it had opened onto a page that mentioned Elberta’s late husband’s two nephews worked for Eugenia Hampton, a dreadful shrew of a woman to be sure. But she lived just up the road from the Frommer house. Mrs. Goodge hadn’t wasted a moment. She’d sent off a note to young Matthew Pike inviting him to come around for tea on his afternoon off. He’d arrived wary, but curious. It wasn’t often the likes of him got invited to tea in a fine kitchen. “We’re very lucky,” she went on. “The inspector’s quite the generous man.”

“Must be funny, workin’ for a copper?” Matthew gasped quietly as he saw the slab of sponge cake the cook loaded onto his plate.

“It’s not so bad,” she said, handing him the cake. “We get to hear all about his cases. They’re interesting.”

“Well, we had us a murder,” he boasted. “Bet you’ve ’eard of it; it were in all the newspapers. Old man up the road got himself shot while he was havin’ tea.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “I know all about that one. His name was Roland Ashbury.”

“Is your inspector on that one, then?” Matthew asked, somewhat disappointed because he’d been looking forward to having all the details coaxed out of him with more cake and tea.

“He is indeed,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “And he likes to discuss his cases, he does. For instance, I’ll bet you didn’t know that the man was murdered with a revolver.”

“The whole neighborhood knows that,” Matthew shot back, “and just about everyone knows whose gun it were too.”

“Charles Burroughs’s.”

His mouth dropped in surprise. “Blimey, I guess you
do know all about the case.” He pursed his lips and stared at his plate. Then he brightened. “But I’ll bet you didn’t know something else. Something that no one except me knows.”

Mrs. Jeffries eyed the small but elegant house warily, wondering if she was about to do something very foolish. She hesitated by the letter box, in her hand an old envelope she’d found in her skirt pocket. Using the envelope as a prop, she pretended to double-check the address, all the while keeping her gaze on the white-painted door of the house across the street. What if the woman refused to answer her questions? Refused to cooperate at all? What if she told the inspector? Mrs. Jeffries pursed her lips as she weighed the odds. To go in or not to go in, that was the question. She smiled at a maid who was vigorously sweeping the door stoop of the house behind her. The maid simply stared back, no doubt beginning to wonder why someone was lingering so long in front of a letter box.

Mrs. Jeffries was just about to start across the road when the front door opened and a tall handsome man
emerged. A woman, small, elegantly dressed and quite beautiful, came out right behind him. He gave the woman his arm and the two of them descended the stairs and began walking up the street.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t hesitate. She turned and walked in the same direction the couple had taken, but she stayed on her side of the road. Traffic was brisk. Hansoms, four-wheelers, drays and loaded wagons kept up a moving screen between her and the two on the other side. When she reached the corner, she saw them turn onto Guildford Street. She hurried after them, taking care to keep them in sight yet staying far enough behind not to be noticed.

They went past the Statue of Coram, the Foundling Hospital and from there onto Lansdown Place and into Brunswick Square. Mrs. Jeffries was breathing heavily by the time the couple in front of her circled the square and headed into the burial grounds. From the way they kept their heads close together in conversation without so much as a glance behind them, she was fairly sure they’d no idea they were being followed.

The man suddenly led the woman off the path and into the cemetery itself. Mrs. Jeffries was close enough now to see the expresssion on his face. He was worried, very worried.

They finally stopped in front of a large marble statue of a winged angel surrounded by a grouping of cherubs. Mrs. Jeffries halted as well. She desperately wanted to know what her prey were discussing, but she needed to stay out of sight. She surveyed the scene carefully and, after the briefest of hesitations, decided the headstone might be large enough to conceal her. Moving cautiously, she darted off the path and crept up on other side.

“But why must I leave?” she heard the woman ask. “I’ve already spoken to the police. They know about us.”

“You shouldn’t have told them anything,” the man insisted. “They’re not fools. Now they know you had a motive. The old bastard tried to blackmail you.”

She gave a cynical laugh. “He tried, but he didn’t succeed. I told him to go ahead and tell. I was going to break it off anyway. But it’s not me I’m worried about, Charles, it’s you. Why did you admit to having a gun?”

“Because I had to,” he said harshly. “Too many people have seen it.”

Mrs. Jeffries could hear the shuffle of feet as the man’s agitation increased. She huddled closer to the headstone.

“It doesn’t matter, darling. The police will realize the gun must have been stolen,” the woman cried. “You didn’t have any reason to kill him.”

There was a long silence, so long that Mrs. Jeffries was beginning to think they might have discovered her presence and were in the process of tiptoeing away. But finally the man spoke. “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. I had the best reason of all to want him dead.”

“But you didn’t even know him till you came here?” The woman sounded as though she couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You couldn’t have hated him enough to murder him. You just couldn’t.”

“You don’t really believe that, dearest,” he said softly. “If you did, you wouldn’t have made up that lie about seeing Andrew Frommer.”

“It wasn’t a lie,” she hissed. “I did see him.”

“Darling, I’m touched by your devotion, but you weren’t even at my house that afternoon. The police will find that out soon enough. My servants won’t lie.” There was the thump of feet and the rustle of clothing as they began to move. “Come on,” Mrs. Jeffries heard him say, “let’s walk.”

Mrs. Jeffries waited a few seconds, giving them time
to move farther away. The moment she judged they were far enough down the path not to hear her, she hurried out from her hiding place.

Her face fell in disappointment. Coming directly toward her was a huge black coffin, in front of which walked a sad-faced cleric. Somehow a funeral procession had gotten between her and her quarry. She stepped to one side so they could pass. By the time she could politely make her way past the mourners, her prey were gone.

The inspector and Barnes followed Mrs. Frommer into the drawing room. Witherspoon waited until she’d sat down on the sofa before quietly closing the door. He didn’t think Mr. Frommer would dare interrupt them, especially as he’d left a fresh-faced police constable on duty outside the study. But he was taking no chances. The man had been furious at his wife. Witherspoon, despite not knowing what to make of MaryAnne Frommer, didn’t wish to conduct the interview in her husband’s presence. He was afraid her answers might enrage Frommer to the point that he’d do violence to his wife the minute the house was empty of police. The inspector wasn’t having any of that.

MaryAnne Frommer cocked her head to one side and gazed at him quizzically. “You’re wondering why I lied earlier, aren’t you?”

“Yes, madam, I am.” He crossed the room and, without being invited, sat down on the other end of the sofa. “You originally told us you’d come back to London on a late train because you’d gone to the vicarage.”

“I knew you’d find out the truth.” She laughed. “I suppose expecting a vicar to lie for one is expecting a bit much, don’t you agree? Of course, when I arrived home and found out that Papa was dead, lying no longer mattered.”

Witherspoon didn’t think he could be any more confused. “Could you explain yourself, please.”

“I told everyone I was going to the vicarage so I wouldn’t have to come home on the same train as Andrew.” She broke off with a short, harsh laugh. “I thought he’d be going on the four o’clock train. Imagine my surprise when I came hurtling onto the platform and saw him. I jumped back so fast I almost tripped.”

“I take it your husband didn’t see you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Andrew isn’t particularly observant.” She shrugged. “Once the train pulled in, I waited till he got into a first-class carriage and then got on myself. When we arrived at Waterloo, I kept well back, making sure that he didn’t see me. When I saw him leave the station, I hurried out and hailed a hansom. Then I went to Mortimer Street, to the offices of Henley and Farr.”

“Who is that, ma’am?” Witherspoon asked.

“They’re a firm of solicitors.” She smiled wanly.

The inspector nodded encouragingly. “What time was your appointment?”

“I didn’t have one. I went to them because they were the only solicitors in town who I thought might represent me. They aren’t frightened of Andrew, you see.”

Witherspoon didn’t see, but before he could formulate a question that didn’t sound too terribly odd, she continued.

“What I needed from them was rather delicate. The sort of thing most solicitors wouldn’t want to handle in any case.” She sighed. “Especially when the husband in question is an MP. Andrew isn’t averse to using his position to make someone’s life miserable. He’s done it before. Frequently. That’s why I had to go to Henley and Farr. They’ve gone up against Andrew several times and won.”

“What did you want them to do for you, ma’am?” Barnes asked softly.

“I wanted to find out if I could obtain a divorce.” She smiled sadly. “You see, I had grounds now. Andrew’s got a mistress. I have witnesses. Several of them.”

“I see.” Witherspoon knew that obtaining a divorce was very difficult. From what he’d learned of Frommer’s character, he didn’t much blame Mrs. Frommer for wanting to leave this marriage, but something was bothering him. Something she’d said. He frowned, trying to remember precisely what it was.

The constable, after waiting a moment of two for the inspector to speak, finally asked, “Who did you see at Henley and Fair?”

She made a disgusted face. “No one. The whole trip was absolutely wasted. The office was closed; there weren’t even any clerks there. There was a notice on the door saying that they were closed until Monday next. Can you believe it? The whole office gone on holiday at the same time.”

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon. The inspector’s face still wore an expression of fierce concentration. The constable carried on. “What did you do then?” he asked.

“What did I do?” she repeated, with a cynical laugh. “What could I do? Nothing. I was very disappointed, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I didn’t want to face going home, so I went for a long walk.”

Again the constable glanced at his superior. He didn’t want Witherspoon thinking he was getting above himself by asking so many questions. But the inspector still looked preoccupied, so the constable pressed on. “Did you see anyone you know?”

She shook her head. “Not that I recall.”

Barnes scribbled her answers in his notebook, more to
give the inspector time to finish his thinking than anything else. The constable had quite a good memory. But he’d learned that putting something in writing didn’t hurt. Especially when one had to give evidence in court. He glanced up. Witherspoon was now stroking his chin, his expression still preoccupied. There was nothing for it but for him to keep on. “Where were you between three-thirty and four o’clock?” he asked.