Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (24 page)

Witherspoon squinted at the picture. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you’re getting…good gracious, you’re right.”

“Good morning, sir,” Barnes said easily as he slipped in behind the maid.

“Barnes, do come have a look at this.” Witherspoon pointed at the photograph.

The constable, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye; he simply crossed the room and did as he was instructed. “All right,
sir,” he finally said. “It’s a nice enough picture, but I don’t…yes, sir, I see what you mean. This young fellow”—he placed his finger on the figure next to Natasha—“is very familiar. Now, where have I seen that face?”

“It’s Burroughs, man. Charles Burroughs.” Witherspoon leapt to his feet. “And that means we’d best get over there right away. We’ve found our killer, Barnes, and it isn’t Andrew Frommer.” He charged out into the hall with the constable on his heels. A moment later the front door slammed.

A satisfied smile on her face, Mrs. Jeffries relaxed back against the settee. It had been touch and go for a moment or two there. Thank goodness the inspector had put two and two together and realized that the motive on this murder wasn’t money but revenge. As to all the other bits and pieces, well, she was sure that once Burroughs was in custody and had told his tale, they’d sort out the puzzling things that didn’t add up as yet.

“I take it from the expression on your face that you know what that was all about,” Betsy said.

Mrs. Jeffries started. She’d quite forgotten the girl was in the room. “Oh, I’m sorry, Betsy. I was thinking.” She got up. “But yes, I do know what it was about. If you’ll come downstairs, I’ll tell you at the same time as I tell the others. Is Boyd still here?”

“Wiggins took him upstairs so he could have a rest,” she replied. “The boy hasn’t slept well since Ashbury’s murder.”

The two women made their way downstairs. Mrs. Goodge, who was taking a tray of scones out of the oven, turned as they came into the kitchen. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“We really should wait till the others are all here before
I say anything,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I do so want to be fair.”

Mrs. Goodge slammed the tray of scones down hard on the worktable. “Wiggins’ll be back as soon as he gets Boyd settled, and Smythe has gone to fetch Luty and Hatchet.”

Mrs. Jeffries realized the cook was most put out. “Mrs. Goodge,” she asked, “is something wrong?”

“Wrong? What could be wrong?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at the other two women. “Wiggins seems to feel you’ve solved the case all on your own.”

“Now, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said gently, “that’s not true. I’ll admit I had to act quickly today. But only because it was the only way I could think of to get the carpetbag back here and into the inspector’s possession without him realizing what we’d done.”

“Then you haven’t solved it?” the cook asked hopefully.

“I wouldn’t precisely say that,” Mrs. Jeffries hedged. She wanted to let the cook down easily and tried to think of a way to go about it.

“Then you have solved it,” she charged.

“Well, more or less.” The housekeeper winced as Mrs. Goodge’s expression turned thunderous. For the first time she realized the others might consider that she’d been just a tad hoggish on this case. But what could she have done differently?

“You could have at least given me a chance to test me theory,” the cook cried. “Was that too much to ask? I’ve gone to a lot of trouble here. I’ve been up since before dawn, sendin’ street lads to Covent Gardens and over to other places sussin’ out information, and for what? So you can come along and solve the case without so much as a by-your-leave. Well, I tell you, I’m annoyed. Right annoyed.
I know I was right and all it woulda took was a few minutes with each of the suspects.”

“You’re not bein’ fair,” Betsy said. “Mrs. Jeffries had to act fast. We had to get that carpetbag to the inspector and she figured out a way to do it.”

“It couldn’t have waited a day or two?” Mrs. Goodge asked archly.

It could have, Mrs. Jeffries thought. Charles Burroughs wasn’t going anywhere and the police were watching over Mrs. Frommer, so he couldn’t make an attempt on her life again. “Yes, Mrs. Goodge,” she admitted, “it could have waited a day or two. I’m terribly sorry. I should have let you test your theory. Or at least told the others about it.”

“Test what theory?” Smythe asked easily as he came in from the back hall. Luty and Hatchet were right on his heels.

“My theory,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “But it’s too late now; Mrs. Jeffries has already solved the ruddy case.” With that, she dusted off her hands and went to the sink to fill the kettle.

No one said anything for a moment. Luty and Hatchet quietly slipped into their chairs. Smythe, with an inquiring look at Betsy, sat down, and Mrs. Jeffries, her conscience troubling her greatly, took her place at the head of the table.

“I’ll just go get Wiggins,” Betsy said softly.

“Please do,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and when you both come down, we’ll have our meeting.”

“Will you arrest him, sir?” the constable asked as they got out of the cab. The inspector had briefed him on the drive over.

“I’m not sure,” the Inspector admitted. “But I will ask him a number of questions.”

“Do you think he really is Natasha Ashbury’s brother?” Barnes persisted. He gave a quick, worried glance at the front door of the Burroughs house. “Seems to me it could just be a coincidence; the way he looks, I mean. Lots of people resemble each other. Let’s face it, sir, your whole case would fall apart if it turns out he’s nothing to do with the Ashburys.”

“What about both of them being from Colorado?” Witherspoon argued. “Burroughs has already told us he was from Boulder. Jonathan Ashbury’s letters prove that they were in Colorado as well. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” He sincerely hoped it wasn’t. “It’s at least worth asking a few questions over.”

Barnes banged the door knocker. “I suppose so, sir. But for my money, I’d like to get my hands on Andrew Frommer. We still haven’t found the man, and in all my years as a policeman, I’ve seen that it’s generally the guilty that disappears.”

The door opened and Eloise Hartshorn stuck her head out. “Hello, Inspector, Constable. Have you located Andrew yet?”

“No, ma’am,” Witherspoon replied. “Not yet. But we’re still looking. May we come inside, please. We need to ask Mr. Burroughs a few questions.”

“He’s not here,” she said quickly.

“When is he expected back?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure that Miss Hartshorn was being entirely truthful.

She slipped out of the front door and closed it behind her. “He didn’t say,” she said. “I’ll have him get in touch with you when he comes back, all right?”

The door suddenly flew open behind her, revealing a grim-faced butler and an even grimmer-faced Charles Burroughs. “Oh, for God’s sake, Eloise, don’t be so ridiculous.
Did you think the butler wouldn’t come and fetch me when you ordered him away from the front door?”

“I didn’t want you disturbed,” she countered, lifting her chin defiantly. “You need your rest. You were up most of the night.”

“Please stop trying to protect me, Eloise.” He sighed in exasperation. “Inspector, Constable.” He nodded at the two policemen and opened the door wide. “I’ve been expecting you. Do come in.”

Mrs. Jeffries told her story quickly and efficiently. “So you see, as soon as I realized that the boy in the photograph was Charles Burroughs, I realized that he had to be the killer. He came back for vengeance.”

“But why try and kill Mrs. Frommer?” Luty asked. “She didn’t have anything to do with what Ashbury did to his son.”

“But she had money of her own,” Mrs. Jeffries countered, “and it doesn’t appear she had been willing to help her brother either.”

She turned to Mrs. Goodge. “I’m really sorry if you felt I acted untoward here, but honestly I didn’t realize that your theory was so very important to you. I’m quite sure you’re right.”

“Do you think so?” the cook asked. She appeared to be somewhat mollified by Mrs. Jeffries’s apology.

“Absolutely.”

Mrs. Goodge smiled happily. “Then that’s all right.”

They discussed the case for a while, asking questions and speculating on what the real answers would be when the inspector came home and gave them all the details. No one had any doubts that Mrs. Jeffries was right about Charles Burroughs being the killer.

No one that is, except Mrs. Goodge.

To her credit, she waited till the others had left the kitchen. Then she got up, packed the freshly baked scones into a wicker basket, covered it with a clean cloth and took off her apron. She put on her hat, took one last look around the kitchen to make sure everything was in order, picked up the basket of scones and then slipped out the back door.

Burroughs took them into his drawing room and bade them to sit down and be comfortable. He smiled tenderly at Eloise, his irritation of a few moments ago clearly forgotten. “My dear, I think it would be best if you left us alone.”

“I’m staying,” she said flatly. She crossed the room and stood next to him. “I’m not leaving your side.”

He stared at her for a few seconds and then took her hand and kissed it. “All right, my love. But let’s sit down.” The two of them went to the love seat across from the settee and sank down on the cushions. Burroughs turned his attention to the policemen. “Gentlemen, I believe you wanted to ask me some questions. But before you do, I’ve a question I need answered. How is Mrs. Frommer? Eloise told me she’d been shot.”

“She’s alive,” the inspector replied.

“Will she live?”

“Perhaps,” he said cautiously. He wasn’t sure how much information he wanted to give just at this moment. “You know that she was probably shot in her own back garden?”

“Yes, my servants told me you’d questioned them, but none of them heard the shot.”

“That’s correct. I understand you weren’t home yesterday evening.”

“I was at Eloise’s house,” he replied. “Her servants will verify that.”

Witherspoon was in a quandary. He was sure that whoever had shot Mrs. Frommer was also the same person who’d murdered her father. But how could Burroughs be the killer if he wasn’t here last night? Eloise Hartshorn’s servants might be well paid, but they weren’t paid enough to perjure themselves in a murder inquiry, and both the maid and the cook had sworn that Charles Burroughs was at the Hartshorn house all afternoon and evening. Oh well, there was nothing for it but to press on. Eventually the truth would out; it always did.

“Yes, sir.” Witherspoon cleared his throat and stifled a yawn. “We know.” Perhaps he ought to have had a nap, because all of a sudden he was feeling a bit muddled. “Is Charles Burroughs your real name?”

“Charles Burroughs is my legal name.”

Witherspoon was taken aback. “You realize we will check everything you say with the authorities in America,” he warned.

“I would expect nothing less,” Burroughs replied easily.

“Is Charles Burroughs the name you were born with,” Barnes asked.

Burroughs grinned. “Very good, Constable, you’re obviously aware of the fact that many people change their
name when they go to America. Quite rightly too. For many of us it is a new life. Too bad it didn’t turn out that way for my sister and her family. But as to your query…” He looked at the inspector as he spoke. “I was born Mikhail Ilyich Buriyakin. That’s a bit of mouthful for most Americans, so I had it legally changed to Charles Burroughs.”