Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (25 page)

“What was your sister’s name?” Witherspoon asked.

“Natasha Buriyakin Ashbury,” he said. “Her husband was Jonathan Ashbury. They, along with my ten-month-old nephew, were killed when the wagon they were sleeping in was washed away in a flash flood. They’d lost their home, you see, and Roland Ashbury, Jonathan’s own father, hadn’t lifted one damned finger to help them.”

Witherspoon was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. There was something most likable about Burroughs, most likable indeed. Now he was going to have to arrest the fellow. Maybe. “Why weren’t you killed?”

“I wasn’t in the wagon,” Burroughs said. “I’d recently been very ill; I’d almost died. One of our neighbors had taken me in to nurse. They’d offered to let Jonathan and Natasha sleep in their barn that night too, but Jonathan was too proud. He’d pulled the wagon onto a dried-up riverbed. Jonathan wasn’t from the west, he didn’t know about storms in the mountain and floods roaring down so fast that you couldn’t do anything to save yourself. That’s what happened to them. They were swept away. It took us two days to find the bodies.”

“You blamed Roland Ashbury,” Witherspoon stated.

“Who else?” Burroughs shrugged. “It wasn’t as if Jonathan asked for what wasn’t his. Jonathan’s mother had left him money; quite a bit of it. All Jonathan wanted was what was his by right. But the old bastard never sent it. He never even answered Jonathan’s letters. The day we
buried them, I swore I’d get even with him. I swore I’d make him pay.”

“So you came to London for the express purpose of exacting vengeance against Roland Ashbury?” The inspector needed to be very clear about the man’s actions, since he would, eventually, have to give evidence in court. This murder, apparently, wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment sort of crime. That would make a difference to the court.

“It took me fifteen years of hard work,” Burroughs admitted, “but I did it. I ended up with a fortune from silver mining. Right before Christmas, I sold up and came here.”

“When exactly did you arrive in London?” Barnes asked.

“February fourteenth. I used a private inquiry agent to locate Ashbury,” he said. “Luckily, the house next door to my prey was for sale. I bought it and moved in.”

“Why didn’t you kill Roland right away?” Witherspoon asked.

Burroughs looked at Eloise Hartshorn before he replied. “I found out, Inspector,” he said firmly, “that much as I loathed Ashbury, I couldn’t kill him in cold blood.”

“Are you saying you didn’t murder him?” Witherspoon pressed. “Are you saying you didn’t shoot him?”

“I did not,” Burroughs said flatly. “How could I? I’d spent years dreaming of the day I would put a bullet into that man’s skull, but after seeing the suffering of his daughter, after living next door to him, I couldn’t find it within myself to actually do it. I kept putting it off and putting it off, and then I met Eloise and everything changed. Vengeance didn’t seem important to me anymore.”

“Remember, sir,” the inspector warned, “it was your gun that was found at the scene of the murder. You’ve
admitted you had a motive and you could easily have manufactured the opportunity, yet you expect us to believe that you suddenly had a change of heart because you felt sorry for Ashbury’s daughter and you fell in love.”

“It’s true,” Eloise cried. “Everything did change when we met each other. Besides, that gun was stolen.”

“Now, Eloise, we don’t know that,” Burroughs cautioned. “We only think it might have been taken.”

“When was this, sir?” Barnes asked.

“A few weeks back. We came home from the theater and found a window wide open but nothing missing.”

“That’s what we thought at the time,” Eloise added, “but Charles never checked to see if the gun was still here.”

Witherspoon eyed them speculatively. The tale had the ring of truth to it. “Did you fetch the police?”

“We sent for the constable up on the corner,” Burroughs replied. “But by the time he came round, we realized nothing appeared to be missing and told him to go. But you can check with him.”

“Rest assured we will, sir,” Witherspoon said.

“I tell you, Charles didn’t do it,” Eloise insisted. “He couldn’t. He’s too decent a man to kill someone, even an odious pig like Roland Ashbury.”

“Ashbury tried to blackmail you, didn’t he?” Barnes reminded her. “So you had reason to hate him as well.”

“Now, see here.” Burroughs got to his feet. “Eloise had nothing to do with Ashbury’s death or with the attack on Mrs. Frommer. Why would she? She told me herself about her past. Ashbury couldn’t blackmail her.”

“And it didn’t bother you, sir,” Barnes said easily. “It didn’t bother you that the woman you loved was the mistress of the son-in-law of a man you hated. Seems to me, sir, that it adds a bit more fuel to the fire.”

The inspector wondered what his constable was up to, but he wasn’t going to interfere. The man did have a point.

“Of course I hated it, Constable,” Burroughs snapped. “But I never hated enough to kill in cold blood.”

“We were going back to America,” Eloise cried shrilly. “I’d already gone and booked the tickets. I’d made arrangements to get both our household things shipped to San Francisco. Show them, darling, show them the tickets. We bought them days before the murder.”

“I should like to see them, if you please,” the inspector said.

Burroughs nodded, crossed the room and rang the bellpull. A moment later the butler appeared. “You rang, sir.”

“Yes, could you please go to my study and bring me the envelope you’ll find in the top left-hand drawer.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler withdrew to do his master’s bidding.

While they waited the inspector tried to think of something else to ask. He’d been so very certain of Burroughs’s guilt before he spoke to the man; now he wasn’t quite so sure. “Er, which shipping company did you arrange to have your things shipped with?” he finally asked.

Eloise laughed harshly. “The only one I could think of was Ashbury and Alladyce. Ironic, isn’t it? I hated Roland Ashbury, yet without even thinking about it, I gave him my business. I suppose I didn’t realize he was still a part of it. I thought Roland had retired and was completely out of it.”

“Will Mr. Alladyce verify that you came to see him and made arrangements through his company?” Witherspoon asked.

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” she replied.

“How long before the murder did you go and see Mr. Alladyce?”

She thought for a moment. “Let me see, now. It must have been two, possibly two and a half weeks before Roland’s murder. I told him what ship we were leaving on and left a deposit for the packing and shipping charges.”

The butler returned and handed a large, buff-colored envelope to Charles Burroughs. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing the servant. He opened it, pulled out the contents and nodded in satisfaction.

“Have a look at these, Inspector; the invoice is right on top. You’ll see the purchase date is three days before Roland Ashbury’s murder, but the sailing date of the ship is two weeks from now. If I’d killed Ashbury, I’d have left town immediately. I certainly wouldn’t have hung around packing up two houses.”

The inspector took the proffered documents and studied them carefully. There were two first-class tickets for a mid-month sailing of American Lines flagship vessel the
Elizabeth Kristina
to New York. The invoice for the purchase of those tickets was indeed dated three days before Ashbury’s murder.

The inspector wasn’t sure what to do. The tickets didn’t really prove anything, but their very existence argued against arresting Charles Burroughs. Furthermore, Witherspoon thought, the man had made some powerful points in his own defense. If he had committed the murder, why hang about waiting to be caught? Surely he must have expected that there was a risk the police would find out his true identity. Once that had happened, it would be only a matter of time before his motive became apparent. Then, of course, there was the attempt on Mrs. Frommer’s life. Burroughs couldn’t have done that. He had an alibi. But he could have paid to have had it done. Witherspoon had
seen that happen a time or two. Paid assassins were, unfortunately, all too common.

“Excuse me, sir.” The butler had quietly come back into the drawing room. “But there’s a rather…unusual woman who insists on seeing the inspector.”

“Do send her in,” Burroughs said. He smiled at Eloise and patted her arm. “Don’t worry, darling, everything will be all right.”

“This way, ma’am.” The butler ushered in a plump, gray-haired woman carrying a wicker basket over her arm.

“Gracious,” Witherspoon yelped. “Mrs. Goodge, what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.” She shot the butler a malevolent glare. “I asked him to fetch you out to the hall, not march me inside.”

“Yes, yes,” the inspector murmured, somewhat surprised at the appearance of his cook. “I’m sure you…ah…ah—what are you doing here?” he finally repeated. “Is everything all right at home.”

“Everything’s fine.” She nodded politely to Barnes and the others. “It was you that we was worried about. Mrs. Jeffries mentioned how you’d been up all night at the hospital with Mrs. Frommer. Well, sir, seein’ as how you didn’t even take the time for a proper breakfast—”

“I ate at the hospital,” he interjected quickly; he had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next. Barnes was already trying to hide a smile and even the two suspects looked amused.

“That’s not decent food,” she charged. “But anyway, my point is, sir, you’ll be needin’ your strength. I’ve made up a batch of my special scones, sir. They’ll keep you going all day. As I said, I didn’t wish to disturb you, but I felt it necessary to bring them round.” She opened the wrapping cloth, walked over to the inspector and shoved
the basket under his nose. “Here, sir. Have one.”

Witherspoon had no choice but to take a scone. Before he realized it, she’d darted to Barnes, forced a scone on him and then dashed across the room to the love seat. “Here, sir.” She offered the basket to Charles Burroughs. “They’re excellent scones, sir. They’ve got walnuts in them. Do have one.”

Burroughs, looking as thought he were having a hard time keeping a straight face, took a scone and bit into it with gusto. “You’re right, these are good. Do try one, Eloise.”

Eloise Hartshorn gaped at the cook. “I’m not really very hungry,” she began. Burroughs reached in the basket, snatched a scone and handed it to her. “Eat it,” he ordered. “You’ve not had a thing in your stomach since you heard about Mrs. Frommer.”

Eloise shrugged and took a bite. “They
are
nice,” she agreed, a few moments later. “Very nice indeed. These are quite different than your usual scone. They’re excellent, Charles; do please remind me to get this recipe from the inspector’s cook before we leave for America.”

“Of course, dear,” Charles replied. “I must say, Inspector. You’re quite lucky to have such a devoted cook. I do hope she doesn’t mind sharing her recipes.”

“We’re all devoted to our inspector,” Mrs. Goodge said cheerfully. She watched the two of them as they demolished her scones. “And I don’t mind sharin’ my recipes at all. At least not with the two of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge.” The inspector gulped down the rest of his scone and got to his feet. The pastry was jolly good. How very clever of Mrs. Goodge to think to add walnuts to the recipe. They added quite a crunchy flavor.

“Mr. Burroughs,” Barnes said, “I trust you and Miss
Hartshorn won’t be leaving London until your ship sails.” He too had wolfed down his scone. He’d not eaten anything since that pathetic meal at the hospital.

“No,” Charles replied as he stuffed the last bite in his mouth, “we’ll be right here.”

The policemen, followed by Mrs. Goodge, made their way outside. The cook gave the butler a smug smile as she went past.

As soon as they were outside, she seized the initiative. “Inspector,” she said, “please forgive me, but I had to bring you these.” She poked at the basket hanging off her arm. “I remembered what you said the day after the murder. You are brilliant, sir. Absolutely brilliant.”

When Mrs. Goodge walked back into her kitchen, the place was in an uproar. Smythe was just getting ready to go for the carriage, Mrs. Jeffries was pacing the floor, Betsy was ringing her hands and Wiggins had just suggested they drag the river.

Smythe spotted her first. “Where ’ave you been?” he demanded. “I was getting ready to go to ’oward for the carriage. Then I were goin’ to find the inspector and tell ’im you was missin’.”

“We’ve been worried sick,” Betsy added.

“Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you shouldn’t give us a scare like that. Me and Fred was just fixin’ to go out and search the riverbank for your ’at.”

“Mrs. Goodge?” Mrs. Jeffries queried gently. “I do believe I apologized for my earlier actions. Surely you’re not so angry at me that you would scare everyone so badly.”

“I’m not at all angry at you,” Mrs. Goodge declared as she took off her hat. “I’m sorry I give everyone a fright. I know I don’t usually git out of my kitchen, but
sometimes a body’s got to do what a body thinks is right.”

“Where’ve ya been, then?” Wiggins asked. Relieved that she wasn’t floating facedown in the Thames, he’d bounced back to his usual cheerful demeanor.