Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (19 page)

“I see.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. Deep inside his mind, something slid into place and then just as quickly slipped away. Before he could grasp the elusive thought, it was gone. His frown intensified. He chewed on his lip as he tried to will the idea back, but it was no use.

“Sir?” Barnes voice was concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Right as rain, as it were.” He forced himself to smile. Apparently, his inner voice didn’t wish to speak to him anymore today. But he’d learned one thing. Everything the girl had told him was important. Most important. Either that, or her statement had triggered him into thinking about something else, something connected. Too bad he couldn’t recall what it was. Oh well, he’d think of it sooner or later. As Mrs. Jeffries always said, he had to learn to trust his instincts. “Are you absolutely certain that no one left the table? They were all still there taking tea, both the Frommers, Ashbury, Mr. Alladyce and Mr. Burroughs?”

“Mr. Alladyce had gone, sir. He’d left while Mr. Ashbury
was giving me the keys.” She laughed harshly. “Just like the old tartar not to invite the poor man to stay to tea. He was like that, he was. Unless you were big and important, he couldn’t be bothered with you. Not like that nice Mr. Burroughs. He was nice to everyone. Even poor Boyd.”

“Boyd?” Witherspoon queried. “What was wrong with Boyd?”

“He’s not right, now, is he?”

The inspector had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s not right about the lad? I know he’s gone missing, but I didn’t know there was anything wrong with him.”

She frowned angrily. “He’s gone missing? When?”

“The morning of the murder,” Barnes replied. “But what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a bit slow,” she replied, with a shake of her head. “You know, he’s not too smart. Not so stupid that he couldn’t work, but not very bright either. I can’t believe he’d run off. He’s devoted to Mrs. Frommer. He’d do anything for her.”

“Well…” Witherspoon sighed. This case was even more complicated than he’d thought. “He’s gone now.”

Emma studied the two policemen. “You don’t believe that poor Boyd had anything to do with it, do ya?”

“We’ve no evidence that he did,” Barnes replied. “But as he’s disappeared, he is a suspect. Especially as we know that Mr. Ashbury wasn’t very kind to him.” The constable had tacked that part on; in truth, they didn’t know anything at all about the way Ashbury had treated the footman. But given what they’d learned of the victim, Barnes was fairly certain the man hadn’t been good to the lad.

“Boyd wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she insisted. “He’s not
smart, but he’s the sweetest lad you’d ever meet. And he wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun. He’s scared of them, he is.”

“Most people are frightened of weapons,” Witherspoon said kindly. “But we’ve found that being afraid doesn’t stop people from using them.”

The inspector tried to keep his spirits up as he turned the corner onto Upper Edmonton Gardens. He was terribly confused about this case, but he refused to be downhearted about it. As Mrs. Jeffries always said, he’d figure it out in the end.

Just then a four-wheeler pulled up, and the inspector, thinking it might be an urgent message from the station or the Yard, stopped. He smiled as Lady Cannonberry emerged. His smile faltered as Morris Pilchard got out right behind her.

She spotted him immediately. “Oh Gerald, this is lovely. I had so hoped to see you.”

“I was just on my way home.” He swept his bowler off and bobbed his head. “I’m happy to see you too.”

“Good evening, Witherspoon.” Morris Pilchard elbowed his way between them. “How is your case going? Caught the killer yet? Of course, one doesn’t expect you to work miracles, does one? Actually I’m amazed that you chappies manage to catch anyone at all. No offense meant, but the police don’t seem to be very good at it. They never caught that Ripper fellow, did they?”

“Well, no—” Witherspoon began.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Morris,” Ruth interrupted. “The police do a fine job and I’ll have you know that Gerald is a brilliant detective. Do you have any idea how many murderers he’s caught?”

“Now, now, dearest.” Pilchard patted her arm. “Don’t
upset yourself. I wasn’t casting aspersions on your neighbor’s good character. I’m sure he does the best he can.”

Dearest? Witherspoon’s heart sank as the meaning of Pilchard’s familiarity toward Ruth sank in. Her defense of him was nice, but she was the sort of person who would defend anyone who was being berated unfairly. “Thank you, Ruth. But you’re much too kind. I don’t catch murderers all on my own. It’s a team effort. I could do nothing without the rest if the force.”

“You’re much too modest, Gerald. You’re the best detective they have at the Yard,” she said earnestly. “I know you’re probably terribly busy, but can you dine with us tonight?”

“Dinner?” The inspector’s spirits soared. “At your house? Gracious, I should love to.”

“Good, then it’s settled.” She smiled and patted his arm.

“Are you sure it won’t put your cook to any trouble?” Witherspoon asked.

“Not at all, Cook always prepares far more than we eat,” she assured him. She smiled at her houseguest. “Gerald can tell you about some of his more interesting cases,” she told the sour-faced man. “You’ll be fascinated.”

Pilchard’s mouth curved in disapproval. “I hardly think murder is a proper topic for dinner conversation.”

“I think it’s a better topic than dung beetles,” she said sweetly, “and that’s what you talked about last night.”

“I must go home and tell the staff,” Witherspoon said eagerly. “Then I’ll pop right over, shall I?”

“That’d be lovely, Gerald.” She took Pilchard’s arm and, ignoring his frown, led him toward her front gate. “We’ll expect you in fifteen minutes. That will give us time for a glass of sherry before dinner.”

“I shall be there,” he called happily. Turning, he dashed up the road toward his own front door. Taking the steps two at a time, he fairly flew inside, almost crashing into Mrs. Jeffries. “Oh gracious,” he exclaimed. “I
am
sorry. But I’m in a frightful hurry.”

“Oh dear, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said sympathetically. “Has something happened on the case? Are you going to make an arrest?” She certainly hoped that wasn’t true. She couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on with this murder, and unless the inspector had had a confession or an eyewitness turn up, she didn’t see how he could have solved the crime.

“No, no, no, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said happily. “I’m going to Lady Cannonberry’s. She’s invited me for an impromptu supper. Do tell Mrs. Goodge that I’m ever so sorry,” he called over his shoulder as vaulted up the staircase to his room. “I hope she didn’t go to a lot of trouble with tonight’s dinner.”

“She didn’t, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “It was only a cold supper. It’ll keep.” This also meant that she wouldn’t have a chance to find out what the inspector had learned until late tonight when he came home. She hoped he wouldn’t be so tired that he’d go right to bed. She didn’t want to wait until breakfast tomorrow.

Upstairs, the inspector washed his hands, combed his hair and changed into a fresh shirt. He’d just called down the backstairs that he was leaving when there was a knock on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries, coming in from the drawing room, reached it first.

As it was after dark, the inspector frowned as he saw her turn the doorknob. “I say, Mrs. Jeffries, do let me get it.” He hurried up the hall, but his words were too late. She’d already pulled the door wide open.

Witherspoon’s frown intensified. A police constable, a
rather familiar-looking one, stood on the door stoop. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the lad said, talking over the housekeeper’s shoulder directly to the inspector, “but I’ve been sent to fetch you to the hospital.”

“Hospital? I’m sorry, Constable…”

“Martin, sir. Theodore Martin. We met a few months back on that murder at old man Grant’s house.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I thought you looked familiar. What’s happened? Why do I have to go to the hospital?”

“There’s been a shooting, sir,” Martin explained. “Constable Barnes was just goin’ off duty when the word come in and he thought you’d want to know right away. It’s a Mrs. Frommer, sir. She’s been shot.”

As soon as the front door closed behind the inspector, the household sprang into action. Betsy was dispatched to Lady Cannonberry’s to express the inspector’s regrets about dinner, Smythe was sent off to Howard’s, the livery where the inspector’s carriage and horses were stabled and Wiggins was put in a hansom to deliver the news to Luty and Hatchet. Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries settled in the kitchen to discuss this new turn of events. Their main concern was how they could learn all the details of this latest development without having to wait for the inspector to return home and tell them.

In less than an hour all of them, except Smythe, were back and gathered about the kitchen table.

“This is sure puttin’ the fox amongst the chickens,” Luty declared. “Just when I was fixin’ to figure this one out too. Do we know who did the shootin’?”

“Not yet,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Smythe has taken the horse and carriage to the hospital. He’s using the pretext that the inspector may need it this evening. Naturally he’ll find out what he can.”

“Which hospital is it?” Hachet asked.

“The one on Grays Inn Road,” she answered. “The Royal Free.”

“Smythe might not be able to get away,” Betsy said. “He’ll probably be stuck there as long as the inspector is.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “I know, dear. But knowing Smythe, even if he’s stuck, he’ll find out what he can.”

“Why do they git to go?” Luty asked, glaring at her butler. “I can go just as easily.”

“It wouldn’t be right, madam,” Hatchet said quickly. “A lady such as yourself doesn’t go about the streets at this time of the evening.”

“Oh, pull the other one, Hatchet,” she snorted in disgust. “I’ve been out more times at night than you’ve had hot dinners. Why don’t you just admit it, you like hoggin’ all the fun.”

“Really, madam, I hardly think that’s fair.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Luty snapped. “I’d be in the carriage, and besides, I’d have Dickson with me.”

“Dickson, madam, wouldn’t say boo to a goose in barnyard,” Hatchet shot back. “He is an excellent driver, but he certainly couldn’t defend you against any street ruffians.”

“I don’t need defendin’,” Luty countered. She was getting tired of always being the one waiting for news. “I’m pretty danged good at takin’ care of myself. You just don’t want me to go because you’re afraid I’ll git the jump on you.”

Since this was absolutely true, Hatchet would have died before admitting it. But as he’d not found out much of anything, even after paying Goff to snoop about, he was getting quite desperate for clues. “Don’t be ridiculous, madam. Our investigations are a cooperative effort.”

“Indeed they are,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “And as there is quite a bit I haven’t had a chance to share, we women will have a brief meeting of our own while the two of you”—she smiled at Wiggins and Hatchet—“go over to the hospital and find out what Smythe has learned. You ought to be back in a couple of hours or so. We can compare notes then.”

MaryAnne Frommer lay upon the narrow bed at the end of the ward. Her eyes were closed and she was deathly pale. A coarse but clean white sheet was drawn up under her chin. A gray-haired doctor stood opposite her. “I don’t mind admitting I don’t know all that much about gunshot wounds,” he said. “But we’ll do the very best we can.”