Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (18 page)

“Let’s walk.” Witherspoon pointed to his left. “There’s a grocer’s up a ways.”

“You’re going to do the shopping?”

“Oh no, no.” The inspector laughed. “There’s a witness we need to interview. It may come to nothing, but I want to stop in and have a word with the grocer’s niece. She used to work for the Frommers.”

Witherspoon started briskly up the street. He was glad
he’d remembered this bit of information; why, goodness, poor Wiggins had mentioned the girl almost two days ago. “She might be able to help us. Oh, I say, look, there’s a fruit vendor. Yoo-hoo, boy.” He waved his hands at a boy pushing a large coster’s cart just up ahead. “Hang on, lad,” he called. He quickened his steps and Barnes had to run to catch up with him.

The coster stopped and waited for the policemen to catch up to him. He bobbed his head respectfully as Witherspoon and Barnes trotted up. “What can I get ya, guv?” he asked. “The fruit’s good and ripe.”

“My, my, these do look good.” The inspector licked his lips as he eyed a basket of ripe peaches. “How much?”

“Fourpence each, sir,” the lad replied. “But I’ll let you ’ave two at that price seein’ as ’ow it’s gettin’ late and they’ll not keep overnight.”

“I’ll take them.” Witherspoon reached in his pocket and pulled out some coins. Dropping them into the boy’s hand, he deftly scooped up two of the ripest-looking fruits and tossed one to Barnes.

“Thank you, sir.” The constable watched as the inspector stuffed the peach in his mouth and took an enormous bite. This was twice now that Witherspoon had stopped to buy something to eat. Earlier, on their way to the Frommer house, he’d bought a lemon halfpenny ice from an Italian iceman. Barnes had been horrified; everyone knew those ices weren’t fit to eat. But before the constable had been able to protest, Witherspoon had gulped the thing down. What on earth was wrong with the man?

“Aren’t you going to eat yours?” the inspector asked. “They’re awfully good.”

“I’m sure they are, sir, but I’m not really hungry now.
If you don’t mind, I’ll save mine till after supper.”

“As you like, Constable. Ah, here we are. Hopkins Grocers.” He stopped beneath the green-stripped awning and polished off the rest of the peach. He pulled out a pristine white hankerchief and delicately wiped his fingers, taking care not to get the fabric near the dripping pit he held between his left thumb and forefinger. “Hmm…what can I do with this?” he asked, frowning as he glanced at the tables of assorted goods out on the pavement. “There doesn’t seem to be a dustbin out here.”

“Can I help you gentlemen?” The grocer stepped out of the front door.

“Have you a dustbin?” Witherspoon held the pit out.

The grocer, to his credit, made only the slightest of faces. “Give it to me, sir. There’s one inside. Is that all you needed?”

“Actually we’ve come to speak to a Miss Emma.” Witherspoon smiled at the grocer. “I believe she used to work for Andrew Frommer.”

“That she did, sir.” He broke into a huge, satisfied grin. “That she did. You’re the police, then, come about that murder at the Frommer house?”

“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

“Come inside, gentlemen, and I’ll get the lass. I’m Nat Hopkins, the proprietor.” He bustled back through the door with the two policemen right behind him. They stopped in front of the counter and waited. Hopkins walked to the back of the store, opened a door and stuck his head inside. “Emma,” he shouted. “Come down here, lass. There’s some coppers want to have a word with you.”

“All right,” a muffled female voice replied.

Nat hurried back to them, his expression bright with
anticipation. “Nice of that lad of yours to pass on my message,” he said, bobbing his head at the inspector. “Smart lad. Come in to buy some boiled sweets and we got to talking. When he found out that our Emma used to work for that rotter, he was right excited. Said you wasn’t like other coppers, said you’d take the trouble to listen to the girl. She’s heard plenty, she has.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Witherspoon and Barnes whirled about to see a young girl of about sixteen standing behind them. Small and slender, she was a beauty. Her hair, so dark a brown it was almost black, was pulled back off her face and lay in a thick braid down her back. Her features were perfect, her eyes a dark luminous green. Witherspoon knew that if Wiggins had seen the girl, he’d have fallen in love on the spot. “Yes, miss, we understand you used to work for the Frommer family. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied calmly. “But Mr. Frommer sacked me a few weeks back. He wouldn’t even give me a reference, sir, so I’ve been unable to find another position.”

The door opened and two customers, both women, stepped inside. They’d been chatting to each other, but their conversation died when they caught sight of Barnes in his uniform.

“Would you like to step back to the parlor?” Hopkins offered quickly. “Emma’ll show you the way.”

They followed the girl and a few moments later were standing in a small, neat room comfortably but not opulently furnished.

“Would you like to sit down?” Emma offered, gesturing at the sturdy horsehair settee.

“Now, Miss Emma,” Witherspoon said as soon as the three of them were settled. “Can you think of anyone who
might have had a reason to dislike Mr. Ashbury?”He started with that question because he’d realized the girl wouldn’t know anything about the murder itself and he thought he might as well take the bull by the horns.

“Oh, sir, I expect there’s lots of people that didn’t like Mr. Ashbury; he weren’t a very likable person, if you take my meanin’ sir.” She smiled timidly. “I don’t like speakin’ ill of the dead, sir. But he wasn’t a good man.”

Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. As he couldn’t think of the kinds of questions he ought to be asking, he’d decided that perhaps just keeping the girl talking might be the best way to proceed. “Would you elaborate on that a bit, please?”

Emma’s perfect brows drew together in a confused frown. “Pardon?”

“He means would you tell us exactly in what way Mr. Ashbury wasn’t very nice?” Barnes interjected.

“Oh.” She gave him a bright smile. “That’ll be easy. He was awful particular, he was. Worse even than Mr. Frommer. He was the one got me sacked.” She broke off and looked at them, her expression earnest. “It’s true, it is. I swear. I’m a good girl and I worked right hard. It weren’t fair of them to sack me because of an accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

“I’m sure you’re a very hard worker.” Witherspoon offered her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us what happened.”

“Well, it was a few days before the family was set to be goin’ to the house at Ascot,” she began. “The whole staff was to go. My aunt and uncle weren’t happy about me goin’ off. The reason they liked me workin’ for the Frommers was because it was close to home, but there was naught they could do about it. Anyway, I’d gone up in the attic to fetch Mr. Ashbury’s boxes so he could pack.
As I said, he’s a right particular sort, and as there was three of them up there, I weren’t sure which one he wanted, so I had Boyd haul down all three of them.”

“You took them to Mr. Ashbury’s quarters?” Witherspoon added, hoping to hurry her narrative along a bit.

“Oh no,” she replied. “We took them out to the garden to be aired. Well, I’d forgotten that Mr. Burroughs was comin’ round for tea that afternoon, so I left the boxes out next to the table so they could get the afternoon sun.”

“Open or closed?” Barnes asked.

“Closed.” She frowned. “They was locked, so I couldn’t open them. I remember I was goin’ to ask Mr. Ashbury for the keys so I could give them a proper airing. Anyway, then I went about my business. I was upstairs polishing the railings when Boyd come runnin’ up sayin’ that I’d best help him get them cases moved, as Mr. Ashbury and the others were outside and that Mr. Burroughs had arrived for tea.” She made a face. “I flew down the stairs, I did. But it was too late. They was already outside. Mr. Ashbury started to give me the back of his tongue for leavin’ them out where everyone could see them, but that nice Mr. Burroughs made a jest of the whole thing. I still think that Mr. Ashbury would have sacked me right then, he were so angry. He hated looking like he was lower class, sir. Hated it worse than anything, and those cases of his were a right tatty-looking bunch. But he was too cheap and mean to buy new ones, even though Mrs. Frommer had been after him about it the week before.”

Barnes asked, “Why didn’t he sack you then?”

“Mr. Alladyce arrived to give Mr. Ashbury some papers.”

“Henry Alladyce?” the constable clarified.

“Yes, sir. I was ever so pleased to see Mr. Alladyce. He took Mr. Ashbury’s mind right off me.” Emma
grinned. “He started giving poor Mr. Alladyce a tongue-lashing for leaving the office in the middle of the day.”

“So Mr. Ashbury was distracted? That’s why you didn’t get the sack?” Witherspoon was finding her story just a bit difficult to follow. Plus, he wondered why Charles Burroughs was having tea at the Frommer house. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t think much of his neighbors.

She nodded eagerly. “That’s right. Anyway, Mr. Alladyce took no notice of Mr. Ashbury. He was too busy staring at Mr. Burroughs. He was downright rude. He kept on and on, asking Mr. Burroughs if they’d ever met. Mr. Burroughs laughed and said not unless Mr. Alladyce had been to Colorado, but Mr. Alladyce wouldn’t leave it alone. He kept sayin’ he never forgot a face and he was sure he’d met Mr. Burroughs before. Well, by that time Boyd and I had finished moving the cases, so I thought I’d best ask Mr. Ashbury for the keys so they could be aired out before we brung ’em upstairs. Mr. Ashbury didn’t like bein’ interrupted, but he didn’t want to make any more of a fuss. I think Mr. Burroughs had shamed him, sir; I think he’d made some kind of comments about how it were only lower-class people that were mean to servants in front of guests. But Mr. Ashbury were still angry with me, I know that.”

“How do you know?” Barnes asked. His weathered face was creased in a frown, as though he too were having trouble seeing the point of her story. But like the inspector, he’d learned to be patient. Especially with the very young.

“Because he was givin’ me that funny smile of his, the one he used when he was feelin’ like he’d pulled one over on you.”

“I’m sorry.” Witherspoon’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “I don’t quite understand.”

“It’s the truth, sir,” she said earnestly. “He did have a mean smile. Ask anyone. Every time he’d gotten one of us in trouble or told some big tale or just done something horrid to someone, he had this nasty, smary smile that just made you wish you could smack him in the face. Beggin’ your pardon for bein’ so bold, sir. But that’s how it made all of us feel, sir.”

“All right.” Witherspoon decided to accept her statement at face value. “Go on, what happened then?”

“Well, I asked him for the keys, sir,” she repeated. “He kept them in his pocket, on a small brass ring. He pulled off the three little keys and said that only two of the cases was to be aired. The other one was nothing but old letters and daguerreotypes and stuff like that. It was to be taken back upstairs. The first case I unlocked was the one with the papers, so I sat it next to the back door so Boyd could haul it back up to the attic. Then I opened the other two and took them to the other end of the terrace so they could get the best of the sunshine. I could hear Mr. Ashbury goin’ on and on on the other side of the garden. Anyway, I got up and turned around, thinking I’d slip back in through the door off the terrace so I wouldn’t have to face Mr. Ashbury again. Well, blow me, if I didn’t run smack into a big terra-cotta pot. Someone had moved the ruddy thing till it were almost directly behind me and I’d slammed straight into it. It toppled over against the stone tiles and smashed into dozens of pieces.” She sighed. “I knew I was in for it then. Breakin’ their things would get you sacked right fast, and this was an expensive pot. Everyone come runnin’ to see what had happened. I tried to explain that someone had moved the pot, but it were no good; Mr. Ashbury kept on and on until Mr.
Frommer sacked me. I left that very day. It didn’t even help when Boyd went to Mr. Frommer and told him that I were tellin’ the truth: someone had moved that pot, someone who wanted to get me sacked. I thought it had to be Mr. Ashbury. He never liked me. It was the kind of mean thing he’d do.”

Witherspoon didn’t know what to say. The story was quite sad and unfair; the girl shouldn’t have lost her position merely because of an accident, regardless of the circumstances. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “You were treated very badly.”

“They treated everyone like dirt, they did.”

“Even Mrs. Frommer?” Barnes asked.

Emma smiled cynically. “She was all right, but no one took any notice of her. Not her husband and certainly not her father.”

Barnes smiled kindly at the girl. “Do you really think it was Ashbury who moved the pot?”

Witherspoon couldn’t tell if he was humoring her or not. But to Emma, the question was deadly serious.

“That’s just it,” she said. “The only person who I think would be mean enough to do it was Mr. Ashbury. But when I asked Lottie the kitchen maid if she saw him come around to where I was, she claimed that Mr. Ashbury hadn’t moved from his chair, so it couldn’t have been him. Lottie’s got no reason to lie to me, and as she was the one whose job it was to keep an eye on the tea party to see if they needed anything else, then she’d know. Besides, I could hear him talking while I was opening the cases. He couldn’t have nipped around and moved that pot and then nipped back.”

“So no one left the table while you were opening the cases?” Witherspoon asked. He too was now curious as to how the pot got moved.

“No one, sir.” She shrugged. “It’s a right mystery. That pot was in its proper place by the back door when I went around to the terrace, that’s for certain. I’d have noticed if it wasn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you have heard it being moved?” the inspector asked curiously. “Terra-cotta pots are quite heavy.”

“This one wasn’t, sir,” she answered. “It were one of them thin ones. Come from Italy it did. They’d only bought it a few days earlier. Besides, it was empty, so it wouldn’t have weighed much. And I wouldn’t have heard it in any case, not with Mr. Ashbury brayin’ loud enough to wake the dead on the other side of the terrace wall.”