Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (21 page)

“It wasn’t all filled with money.” Smythe motioned impatiently with his hand. “There was some old papers and letters in there too. Mrs. Frommer had told Boyd to get them from one of her bureau drawers. Anyway, ’e dropped the ruddy thing on the floor and it make a bloomin’ racket. Boyd said ’e were sure that Mr. Ashbury’d come barrelin’ out and box ’is ears. But ’e didn’t.”

“Why didn’t he leave then?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously. “That’s what I’da done. That’s what most people would have done.”

“He were too scared,” Smythe replied. “Boyd’s not too bright, but ’e’s not dumb as a lamppost, neither. ’E knew something were wrong. Bad wrong. So ’e stuck ’is ’ead in the room and didn’t see anything. But ’e ’ad a feelin’, as it were, so even though ’e was so scared ’is knees were shakin’, he went inside. He told me peekin’ over the back of the old man’s chair was the ’ardest thing ’e ever did. But ’e did it and ’e saw Ashbury sittin’ there all wide-eyed and starin’, so ’e gently moved the bloke’s ’ead. That’s when ’e saw Ashbury’d been shot.”

“Why didn’t he raise the alarm right then?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“’E was scared the police’d think ’e did it. ’E’d moved the body, ’e’d got blood on his ’ands and ’e’d got the
blood on ’is clothes too. ’E took off and went into ’idin’.”

“What about Mrs. Frommer?” Luty demanded. “If he’s so devoted to her, why didn’t he meet her in front of the solicitors’ office and tell her what had happened. I know Ashbury weren’t much of a father to the woman, but Nell’s bells, Boyd knew the man was dead.”

“The lad weren’t thinkin’ clearly,” Smythe said defensively. “Besides, ’e’d been stuck up in the attic so long, ’e’d already missed his meetin’ with her. Remember, there was blood all over ’im. All ’e could think to do was run and hide. That’s what ’e did. ’E took off and hid out down on the docks by the river.”

Mrs. Jeffries tapped her finger against the rim of her empty teacup. “What made him go to the Frommer house today?” she asked curiously.

Smythe smiled sadly. “Boyd couldn’t stand bein’ separated from ’er, from Mrs. Frommer. ’E’d decided to tell her the truth about what ’appened, about what ’e’d ’eard.”

“Did he bring the money with him?” Betsy asked.

Smythe grinned broadly. “No, but ’e told me where ’e’d put it. Gave me real good directions too. It’s over near the Greenland Dock. That’s why I wanted to get right back ’ere tonight. I thought you might want the three of us”—he indicated the other two men with a nod in their direction—“to go out and see if we can find this ’ere carpetbag.”

Mrs. Jeffries eyed the coachman speculatively. Smythe was doing his best to appear calm and collected, as were the other two, but it was quite clear from the sudden sparkle in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to go. On the other hand, the woman were getting a bit tired of sitting and waiting for the menfolk.

“That’s a very rough area this time of night,” she said thoughtfully. She had no choice except to let the three of
them go and collect the bag. But, really, there was no point in making it easy for them.

“But I think it might be important, Mrs. Jeffries,” Smythe argued. “Not the money so much as the papers. I mean, Mrs. Frommer was goin’ to take ’em to her solicitors. She told Boyd they was as important as the money.”

Mrs. Jeffries pretended that she had to think about it. If she gave in too quickly, Betsy and Luty might have a fit. “Do you think you could find Boyd’s hideout in the dark?”

“’Course I could.” Smythe looked slightly offended.

“I wasn’t doubting your abilities,” the housekeeper said quickly. Really, men were so easily affronted. “All I meant is that it’s quite dark and the docks are rather notorious for having poor lighting.”

“I’ll take a lamp,” he offered. “I don’t know why, Mrs. J, but I got a feelin’ this is important. The carriage is right out back. We could get over there and back in a couple of ’ours.”

“I’ll be most happy to accompany you,” Hatchet offered.

“Now just hold yer horses here,” Luty put in. “I kin go just as well as you. As a matter of fact, I’ve got my Peacemaker right outside in our carriage….”

“Really, madam,” Hatchet rebuked. “You promised me you’d leave that wretched thing at home.”

“I did no such thing,” she shot back. “I promised I wouldn’t carry it in my muff. I didn’t say a thing about not hidin’ it under the seat in the carriage.”

“Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said quietly. This was precisely what she’d feared would happen. She considered it only luck that Betsy wasn’t demanding to go as well. “I really would like you to stay here.”

“Why?”

“If the inspector should unexpectedly return while Smythe is gone, at least with Hatchet gone as well we’d have a reasonable answer as to why you were here so late at night. We could always say that Hatchet had taken your carriage to go rescue Smythe because he’d thrown a wheel.” It was a very weak excuse, but it was the very best Mrs. Jeffries could come up with at the moment. She didn’t want their elderly friend out on the docks at this time of night. Even with a Colt .45 for protection.

“Oh cowpatties, Hepzibah, you never want me to have any fun.” Luty tossed her butler a quick glare and then turned back to the housekeeper. “But seein’ as how you put it like that, I guess I’ll have to stay. But I’m tellin’ ya, I’m gittin’ tired of the men havin’ all the fun.”

“Not to worry, Luty,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Our turn’s coming. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You really ought to go on home, Constable,” Witherspoon whispered to Barnes. They’d gone out to the hallway and sat down on a bench. The ward sister had promised to call them if there was any change in Mrs. Frommer’s condition. “There’s no point in both of us missing a night’s sleep.”

Watching for changes in the wounded woman’s condition wasn’t the only reason the inspector was staying. Whoever had shot Mrs. Frommer hadn’t killed her. He was afraid the murderer might try again. To that end, he’d stationed police constables on the front door and the door leading to this ward. They were to report anyone acting suspiciously.

At the end of the hallway, the double doors suddenly flew open and a woman swathed in a bold, emerald-green evening cloak charged though.

“My goodness,” Witherspoon murmured. “It’s Miss Hartshorn. What on earth could she be doing here?”

Eloise Hartshorn, an anxious expression on her lovely face, hurried up to the inspector. “Is it true?” she asked without preamble. “Has MaryAnne Frommer been shot?”

“Yes, I’m afraid she has,” the inspector replied. He was very confused now. But he was also rather curious as to how the woman had learned the name so quickly. “How did you find out about it?”

“One of the Frommer servants came to my house. They were looking for Andrew,” she replied. “He wasn’t there, of course.”

“I see,” Witherspoon said. He was very puzzled. Why would Andrew Frommer’s former mistress be so concerned about the man’s wife that she rushed to the hospital upon hearing the wife had been shot? He wasn’t quite sure how to phrase the question, though. “Er, uh, why have you come here, Miss Hartshorn? Do you know anything about this?”

Eloise ignored his question. “Is she dead?”

He hesitated, not certain of how much information he ought to provide. “No, but she’s lost a lot of blood,” he finally admitted. “The doctor doesn’t know if she’ll live. Have you any idea where Mr. Frommer might be? We’d like to inform him of his wife’s condition.” He watched her face carefully, hoping that he could see something in her expression that might help with this baffling case.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about telling Andrew.” She sneered. “I’ll wager he already knows all about it. As a matter of fact, Inspector, that’s why I came. I think Andrew Frommer murdered Roland Ashbury and then shot his wife.” She clutched Witherspoon’s arm. “You’ve got to help me. I think he’s going to come after me next. Andrew’s desperate for money.”

Smythe was as good as his word. It was almost two hours to the minute when he, Hatchet and Wiggins returned to the warm, cozy kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens.

He grinned as he put the worn carpetbag in the center of the table. “Would you like to do the ’onors, Mrs. J?”

“I think the three of you have earned that right,” the housekeeper replied. She ignored the disgruntled expressions on the faces of the female contingent around the table. They, of course, had had the advantage of discussing all the details of the case in the warmth of the cozy kitchen. Mrs. Goodge had proposed an interesting theory. “Go on,” she ordered with a smile, “open it.”

“I’ll do it.” Hatchet reached for the top of the bag and unclasped the heavy, brass prongs in the center. Opening it wide, he eased back, nodding at Smythe and Wiggins to have the first look inside. The others crowded closer as well, their gazes on the open bag.

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins cried. “Looks like she ’ad a bundle stashed in that attic.”

Smythe whistled and then reached inside. He pulled out a stack of pound notes tied with blue ribbon. The stack was a good two inches thick.

“Wonder ’ow much that is,” Wiggins whispered in awe.

“What else is in the bag?” Mrs. Jeffries said. She was quite sure that the money had nothing to do with Ashbury’s murder. They already knew that the footman had been dispatched on his errand hours before the killing. Which, of course, should imply that the money had been in the attic for a good while. Now she wanted to make sure that whatever else was in the carpetbag was equally innocent.

Smythe reached inside again. The sound of rustling paper
filled the quiet room as he pulled out a small stack of letters tied with string. “Just this,” he said, handing them to the housekeeper.

“Are they letters?” Mrs. Goodge demanded to know. She wanted to get on with this bit so she could think further about her theory.

“Just a moment.” Mrs. Jeffries slipped off the string, which was quite loose, and laid the stack on the table. She picked up the first envelope and gazed at the address. “It’s a letter to Roland Ashbury,” she murmured.

“Roland Ashbury,” Betsy repeated. “Why would Mrs. Frommer want her father’s old letters?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have a look.” She slipped the top one out of the envelope, taking care not to damage the fragile page. “It’s dated October tenth, 1875.”

“Read it,” Betsy said. “I’ll bet it’s important. I’ll bet it’s something to do with the murder.”

“‘My dearest father,’” Mrs. Jeffries began to read:

Mrs. Jeffries, not understanding how this could have any bearing on the case, yet feeling instinctively that it did, frowned as she put the letter to one side. “This is very peculiar.”

“It couldn’t have anything to do with the murder,” Hatchet murmured. “That letter is fifteen years old.”

“Maybe it does,” Betsy countered. She bobbed her head at the other letters. “What’s in those?”

Mrs. Jeffries picked up the next one and scanned it quickly. “It’s another one from Jonathan. He appears to be getting more desperate. Listen to this: ‘The bank has already started foreclosure proceedings. They’ve already taken my plow to be sold at auction. We are desperate. Natasha’s brother lost his job at the mine, so the last of our income has disappeared. If you ever had any vestige of feeling for your own flesh and blood, you’ll send the money without delay.’”