Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (2 page)

“Looks like the poor bloke didn’t know what hit him,” Constable Barnes said to Inspector Witherspoon. “Shot directly in the side of the head.” He clucked his tongue sympathetically. The constable was a tall, craggy-faced
man with iron-gray hair beneath his policeman’s helmet.

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon suppressed a shudder. If he could have managed it, he’d have avoided examining the body altogether. But as it was a necessary part of the investigation, he steeled himself to do his duty. “It doesn’t appear as if the man put up a struggle,” he replied. He swallowed heavily as he gently moved the victim’s head to one side. Witherspoon was no expert on gunshot wounds, but even he could see that the weapon had been fired at close range. Very close range.

“No,” Barnes agreed, “he didn’t struggle. Just sat here like a lamb to the slaughter and let the killer do his worst.”

“Perhaps he didn’t see it coming,” Witherspoon suggested.

Barnes nodded in agreement. “Could be the killer come up on his blind side, sir. With these kind of chairs”—he tapped the heavy side padding—“you can’t see a ruddy thing unless you stick your head out.”

“Yes, I expect the killer was counting on that.” Gerald Witherspoon was a tall, robust man with thinning dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He had a long angular face with a sharp, rather pointed nose and, behind his spectacles, clear, blue-gray eyes. “Most people don’t generally sit calmly and wait for someone to put a bullet in their head. Not if they see it first, that is. Do you think in might possibly have been suicide?”

Barnes shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so, sir. For starters, if he’d done himself in, the gun should be somewhere right here.” He pointed to the area around the body. “And we’ve looked, sir. It’s not.”

“I see what you mean. Suicides don’t generally hide the gun after they’ve used it.” Witherspoon pursed his lips and stepped back to survey the scene. The walls were
decorated with nice but unimaginative paintings of hunting scenes and wildlife. There was a decent but well-worn camel-colored Turkey carpet on the floor and terra-cotta-colored muslin summer curtains hung at the windows overlooking the back garden. To one side of the chair where the victim reclined was a settee upholstered in thick, navy-blue cloth. A fully loaded tea trolley stood at the far end of the settee. A dark-colored cake with a large sliver missing was next to a pink-and-white-rose teapot. Two dessert plates, both used, two forks and two cups and saucers testified to the presence of two people.

Barnes grimaced. “Seems wrong, doesn’t it, sir? Sitting down and havin’ tea with someone you’re plannin’ on killin’.”

“Breaking bread with a murderer,” Witherspoon replied, shaking his head sadly, “seems somehow so very, very, awful. More awful, really, than just getting murdered in the course of one’s day.”

Barnes’s gaze dropped to the two dessert plates, one scrapped clean and the other spotted with several tiny rocklike mounds. “One of them didn’t like walnuts.” He sighed and straightened his spine. “Well, sir, do you want to begin taking statements now?”

“We might as well get cracking. The police surgeon’s on his way and we’ve had a good look at the victim. Do we know the poor fellow’s name?”

“It’s Ashbury, sir.” Barnes flipped open his notebook. “According to the maid, Miss Maisie Donovan; she’s the one who found the body. The victim is one Roland Arthur Ashbury.”

“He owns the house?”

Barnes shook his head. “He lives here, sir, with his daughter and son-in-law, Andrew Frommer. They are at
their country house in Ascot; they’re due back later this evening.”

“Frommer,” Witherspoon repeated with a frown. “Now, why does that name sound so familiar?”

“He’s an MP, sir.” Barnes sighed again. “So that means this case’ll probably get sticky. I expect we’ll have the home secretary and half of Westminster puttin’ their oars in on this one.”

“Oh dear,” Witherspoon groaned. “I’m afraid you’re right, Barnes. Unless, of course, we get very lucky and this turns out to be a simple case.”

“Simple, sir?” Barnes snorted in disbelief. “I don’t see that happening. They never are, sir. I expect that’s why the chief sent you out on this one. He’s got a nose, he does, our chief inspector. A call comes in and he can tell by the smell if it’s goin’ to be a clean one or a right old tangle to sort out. But you’re right good at it, sir. If I do say so myself.”

Witherspoon’s narrow chest swelled with pride. “Thank you, Barnes, but I don’t solve cases alone. You’re just as important as I am.” He sighed, thinking of the tremendous responsibility he would have to shoulder. “All right then, complex or not, let’s get this sorted out.” He darted a glance at the door to the hall. The maid who’d discovered the body and the other servants had been asked to remain in the kitchen. “We’ll search the room thoroughly and then get on with taking statements. I suppose I ought to send a message home, telling them not to wait up for me.”

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Barnes said as he hurried toward the bedroom door. “As soon as we got the call, I sent a street arab off to both your home and my missus. No sense in worryin’ people when we don’t get home on time, is there?”

The street arab, one Jeremy Slaven, age eight, stared at the coin the pretty blonde maid had just dropped into his dirty palm. A whole shilling. He couldn’t believe it. Fearing she’d made a mistake and might snatch it back, he quickly closed his fingers on it and stepped out of reach.

“Thanks for bringing us the message,” Betsy, housemaid to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, said as she smiled brightly at the filthy, spindly-legged lad on the backdoor stoop. She was aware of exactly what was going on in his head. Having been poor herself, she knew precisely how suspicious one could be of unexpected generosity. The boy looked as though he’d not had a decent meal in days. “Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly, “I’m not going to take it back. You’ve earned it. If you’ve a mind to, you can come in. There’s a bit of pudding left from supper. You’re welcome to it.”

For a moment Jeremy studied her, and then shrugged as though the matter was of no importance. “All right, seein’ as you’ve asked.”

Betsy turned and started down the back hall, the boy following right at her heels. As they came into the kitchen Jeremy had second thoughts. A whole ruddy bunch of people was sitting at the table. Everyone stopped talking and stared at him.

“The lad’s just come in to finish up that bit of pudding,” Betsy said brightly, ushering him toward the table where the others sat. “As he’s come all the way from Charing Cross with a message from the inspector, I thought he might be a bit peckish.”

“Is the inspector going to be in for dinner?” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, asked. She studied the street lad over the top of her spectacles. He was filthy enough to make
her squirm. But she held her tongue. Something was happening, she was sure of that.

“No, he’s been called out to a possible murder.” Betsy said the words carefully, not wanting to indicate any excitement whatsoever in the presence of a stranger. Even one who was only a youngster. The household’s investigations on behalf of Inspector Witherspoon were a secret.

“I see,” Mrs. Goodge replied, with equal care. Her round face broke into a welcoming smile at the lad. What did a bit of dirt being tracked into her kitchen matter? There was plenty of carbolic in the washroom. “Do sit down, then,” she said briskly, getting up and heading toward the larder, “and I’ll get the pudding.”

Jeremy stopped a few feet from me table as everyone in the kitchen broke into broad, welcoming smiles. These were an odd lot, that was for sure. But he was hungry, so he’d take his chances. He’d not had a bite all day and only half a slice of stale bread the day before.

“’Ere.” Wiggins, the inspector’s young footman, pointed to an empty chair next to him. “This is a nice seat. Come on, now, don’t be shy.”

Jeremy hesitated for a moment and then plopped down in the seat. “Ta,” he muttered.

Wiggins smiled brightly, his round apple cheeks flushed with excitement. He was barely out of his teens and not as good at hiding his feelings as the others.

“I understand you brought a message to the house?” Mrs. Jeffries, the inspector’s housekeeper, asked.

Jeremy looked at her and decided she was all right. He couldn’t say why he thought that way; it was something you just knew. He’d gotten good at sussin’ out people. She reminded him of someone he used to know, but he couldn’t say who. He only knew he’d decided she could be trusted. Her eyes were a bright brown, kindly-like. She
had red-brown hair streaked with gray at the sides and a ready smile that made him glad to be sitting at this table.

“Here you are, boy.” Mrs. Goodge popped a plate heaped with food under his nose. “You might as well help us get shut of this food, seein’ as how you’ve come so far.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. He’d been expectin’ a bit of puddin’, but this was a feast fit for a king. He stared at the slab of chicken pie, the mashed potatoes and the peas, and his mouth watered.

The cook handed him a fork and knife. “They’ll be treacle pudding for afters,” she said lightly. Brushing a bit of flour off the apron covering her ample girth, she sat down next to the housekeeper.

Jeremy wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He snatched up the fork and tucked right in.

“As the young man’s been taken care of”—Mrs. Jeffries flashed a quick smile at Betsy—“why don’t you tell us the rest of the inspector’s message.”

“Oh it’s not much,” Betsy replied airily. “Just that the inspector’s been called out on a case and won’t be home until late.”

“I wonder what kind of a case?” Wiggins mused. “I mean did he know fer sure it were a murder, or were it an accident of some kind?”

“It were a murder,” Jeremy volunteered. “The copper that sent me told me so. Seems some old fellow got himself shot in the ’ead.”

Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue. “Shocking. Absolutely shocking. You didn’t by any chance happen to hear the name of the poor man, did you?”

“Nah.” The lad shook his head. “But I heard the old bas—copper tellin’ another copper the address. It were on
Argyle Street. Number twenty-one. That’s over near the Midland Railway Terminus.”

Using various indirect means, they questioned the lad closely. But it was soon evident he’d told them everything he knew.

“Blimey,” he finally said, scraping the bowl and spooning the last of the pudding into his mouth. “I’d best get movin’. I’ve got to tell that old copper’s missus he’s not comin’ home till late too.”

Betsy walked him to the back door. Reaching into the pocket of her lavender broadcloth skirt, she pulled out another shilling. “Here,” she said, handing it to the boy, “hang on to this. You might need it for a rainy day.”

“’Ow come you’re bein’ so nice to me?” Jeremy was no longer suspicious; now he was just plain curious. These were a strange lot of people, they were. He’d never in his life had so many grown-ups listening to every word he said.

Betsy shrugged. She wasn’t sure she could explain it properly, even to herself. But she’d been young and poor herself once. “No reason not to be, is there? Besides, I’ve been skint myself a time or two,” she said, yanking open the back door. “You look like you could use a bit of coin in your pocket. Go on, now. Get off with you. Constable Barnes’s missus is probably getting worried.”

With a jaunty wave he hurried across the small terrace toward the side of the house. “Thanks for everything,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

When Betsy got back to the dining room, the others were already discussing what needed to be done.

“I think I ought to get over to Argyle Street and suss out what’s up,” Wiggins volunteered.

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. The staff
had been helping their dear inspector with his cases for several years now, but, as always, it was imperative they be discreet. Inspector Witherspoon wasn’t aware that he was getting any help in his investigations.

“I think you ought to wait for Smythe,” Betsy said before the housekeeper could reply to Wiggins’s query. “He should be back any minute now.”

Smythe was the household’s coachman. He’d gone the station to collect their neighbor Lady Cannonberry.

“But it might take ages for him to get back ’ere,” Wiggins protested. “And you know what Mrs. Jeffries always says; the trail goes cold if you don’t get right on it.”

“It doesn’t go that cold,” Betsy told him. “Besides, you know we’re not supposed to go off snooping about on our own. It’s not fair, is it? Especially at the beginning, everybody should have a chance.”

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, hoping to be able to nip any incipient rivalry in the bud. Over the course of their investigations, they’d all become just a tad competitive with one another. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be the one who discovered the clue that solved the case. To that end, they’d informally agreed to a set of rules. Everyone was to have a chance to hear all the pertinent information about the case as it was gathered. Yet the housekeeper could understand the footman’s eagerness to get started. They had an address. They had a body. It did chafe a bit to have to wait. Then she realized there might be a way to accommmodate both points of view.